Sold, to the Highest Bidder
by Sara Generis
Summary: Everyone's preparing for the biggest event of the decade: the Decennial Auction, where the best, most beautiful bondspeople are auctioned off to lucky owners. In an AU where sexual slavery is legal, what could possibly go wrong? Lots of things. (A political/espionage/drama/romance/action/steampunky space opera human AU with as many Hetalia characters as I could fit in.)
1. 1 - America

**Notes:** This is (yet another) kink meme deanon & edited & hopefully much better. It was originally written for a prompt asking for a slave AU in which all the wealthy/important individuals in such a society were expected to own at least one sexual servant, and asking for an auction in which servants were being sold off. It wound up being 250k ish words of politics and spies and yes, eventually an auction. /oops

Nobody's really moral or immoral in this here space opera: England's a pirate stealing freefolk to sell them; the Nordics are gentleman thieves working to free them; Turkey and Greece are (buddy cops) _Federal Agents_ hot on both trails. France, Spain, the Italies, and Rome are (slave) _bondsperson_ trainers of varying ethics; Hungary's the legislative power who somehow has to keep them in line. The East Slavics are high-society slave-owners struggling to maintain a nascent empire; the Baltics (plus Poland) are revolutionaries struggling to try and bring it down. It all leads up to the auction of the decade, which becomes a bit of a comedy of errors.

I'll be releasing a few chapters every few days instead of all in one go (which would drive me insane).

**Trigger warnings:** Alternate universe, sci-fi and steampunky, in which **sexual slavery**** is a legit trade**. That means dubious consent and a creepy unsettling atmosphere. Please be warned!

On the ao3 mirror of this fic there's a link to an ebook compilation which may be helpful to you if you don't want to read it on your computer!

.:.

_You must either make a tool of the creature, or a man of him. You cannot make both. Men were not intended to work with the accuracy of tools, to be precise and perfect in all their actions. If you will have that precision out of them, and make their fingers measure degrees like cog-wheels, and their arms strike curves like compasses, you must unhumanise them..._

_On the other hand, if you will make a man of the working creature, you cannot make him a tool._

- John Ruskin

.:.

_(america)_

He didn't remember very clearly the night he was Taken. If he had, it would've meant he had the ability to fight, so he wouldn't've been Taken.

Before they came, it had been in-and-out of sleep for what seemed like eons, but was probably only a half hour. Maybe three hours. One and a half? Time was meaningless to the feverish, and Alfred had had that, badly. That was why his parents left him alone that night - normally he might tag along. Date night was Friday, and it was Tuesday, and they'd all had plans for the symphony together anyway so it wasn't like he would have been intruding.

To be living with one's parents at the age of twenty-seven wasn't so bad anymore. It had been, once, he was told, but New Joplin was a busy, fast-paced, city-life-filled planet, more advanced than the others, and he and his parents had been there so long he hadn't really known anything else. For a first-generation immigrant, he was pretty well rooted.

Besides, rent was expensive in the city of Lawton! You couldn't buy a bachelor's apartment for less than a grand a month, and he made only just a grand a month with his job. But he had been working hard as a pharmacist's aide these days, these past few years, after his bachelor's and master's and his two diplomas. That had to count for something, right? His boss'd promote him for all that hard work, and then he could pay his student debts, move out, and have his own place - because god was it ever embarrassing to bring girlfriends over and have to tell them to be quiet 'cause _geez, you're gonna wake Mom and Dad _- and, and save up, and maybe get a better job to finance a better place - like, like a house or something - and a dog, he loved dogs, and a wife maybe, and a motorcar. Gee, a motorcar'd be nice.

It turned out these were pipe dreams, because for once in - well, in a long time, farther back than anybody could remember, and Alfred recalled fourth grade history, they said something about 'centuries ago'...

Well anyway, the pirates came.

And he was sick, and home alone.

And the door wasn't locked (why would it be, in this day and age?).

Pretty boy. Too sick to struggle. Easiest few hundred thou they'd ever make.

The attack would later cause the entire amalgamation of Lawton and Grand Cove - some 60 million people, no small feat! - to put locks upon locks on their doors and always be home before 6 PM and to look behind their shoulders at shadows that were really just tricks of the light.

But that wouldn't matter to Mr. and Mrs. Jones of New Joplin because Alfred was gone, and he was the only son they had left.

The first thing he remembered when he came to, which wasn't vague snippets of _Yo, Tony, over here!_ and _Easy, luv, easy, swallow it nice now, there's a lad_ was a whisper from across the room. "Psst! Hey!"

The room ... was cold. Didn't he close the window? He would have, he was sick - and gee it's dark, even at 4 AM Lawton's never like this -

Alfred sat upright on cold dank stone. "What the-"

"Hey! You're up! 'Bout time, I'm bored," hissed a voice - accented, you're not from around here - to his left. Two bright eyes were staring at him through a tiny rectangular peep hole. It was too dark to see their colour but at least it was comforting to see another person.

"Where the hell am I?" he asked. "Is this like, the drunk tank or something?"

"Ho boy, you're old enough to drink? You don't look it!" the voice whispered, and the eyes through the peep hole grew wide. "Wait a sec, you don't remember? Aw, shit."

"What?" Alfred asked. "What'd I say?"

"Nothing, nothing, just - come here, okay? I'll tell you what's up, just come here."

The voice seemed trustworthy, and friendly, but more to the point it was another human being so Alfred crawled over as close as he could until he found he could go no further. "My ankle, it's chained."

"'Kay, I'll see if I can reach... Ah! There." And he saw a few pale fingers extend through the bars of the peep hole, and more of the other guy's face. Hard to tell in the low light but his hair was palest white, and his eyes dark brown. His accent didn't really sound Vitim, though. He'd studied the Vitim a bit in Extra Biology 325. Maybe Norda? No, not really...

Alfred wasn't sure what it was that made him reach over himself and grasp them. Probably the same thing that gave him a feeling of dread when he'd woken. This is not good, he thought.

"Look, kid, I'm really sorry to tell you this. I really am. But you got Taken."

And it was a testament as to how fucking ignorant Alfred was then because he said, "What d'you mean?"

The other boy's eyes - reddish brown? - widened further. "Aw, shit, you don't even know -"

But it was at that very moment a sound like clanging came from outside. "I'll have to tell you later, okay? They're coming to check on you. Say, what's your name?"

"Alfred," he replied.

"Alfred!" the other boy said happily. "That's an awesome name! Alfred, Alfred, Ally-fred. Freddy. Freddyfreddyfreddy. Alfred. Al. Okay, I got it. I think I got it. Remember your name, Alfred. Fucking remember it."

"What's yours?" Alfred asked, though the clanging was getting louder and he felt a strange feeling in the pit of his belly, like maybe he should stop talking so loudly.

"I dunno," the other boy said. "Maybe Gil. Maybe Ludwig. I don't know. They made me forget it."

"How could -"

"Shht," the boy replied. He gripped Alfred's fingers harder through the bars. "They're coming for you. Listen -" and the boy's eyes appeared wider through the peephole somehow, his voice quavering - "listen. Stay calm. Be nice to them, and they'll be nice back. Most of 'em don't wanna hurt us, but some of 'em do, and some others ... some of 'em want more than just to hurt us, okay? If that happens, just ... take everything that you know is _you_, take Alfred, and put him in a box. And lock that box up, you hear? You're not a person to them anymore, you're a _thing_ -" oh god, then it was as he feared - by taken, the other boy had meant _Taken_ taken, like in the stories... Alfred began to panic.

"No, don't. Don't do that. Calm down. Lock it up. Don't let them in. Don't you let them in, Alfred."

The door to his cell opened and horrifyingly bright light rushed in.


	2. 2 - Ukraine

_(ukraine)_

"You are a fucking. Moron," Katya spat.

"Aagh, stop talking so loudly! Please, you are murdering my ears."

Katya paced around on the floor restlessly and ignored her brother. Yes, I _hope _it hurts, she thought, watching as every step of her heavy riding boots made him cringe. He was the fool that had gotten them into this mess in the first place, it was his own fault if he was now overly sensitive. "I don't know _what _your motivations were and frankly I don't care. You nearly single-handedly brought down the Empire out of your own sheer stubbornness! Do you have any idea what would have happened if you'd waited any longer? It's not just you in this household, idiot! And, and Mother, and Father, after all they did for us. Have you no thought to spare for them?"

Ivan moaned. "Please, do not remind me!" he whined pathetically.

"You know, it took me quite awhile to put it all together. It took awhile indeed. At first I thought we were being robbed by the servants. No more vodka, never any vodka, but nobody admits to it under questioning, all gone, never found the bottles. And then I notice you. You disappear at ten at night like clockwork to lock yourself away in your room. Three locks, Arisha tells me. Then you install a fourth. Then a fifth.

"You're distracted more often. Your eyes seem hazy and foggy, you can't concentrate, claim it's the boredom of the annual municipal budget. So I take over your work in running this devil-overrun ice ball so that you can rest. But do you get better? Of course not. You don't eat, you hardly sleep. You take more hot showers than our allocation of heating oil can stand, so Natashka and I have to sponge-bath with the tea kettles!

"Last but not least, you, with your long sleeves and your long coat and your long scarf. Even in summer. You claim you're freezing, it's so cold here, need to wear such clothing. Oh _yes_, Vanya, it _is_ cold here, but you're Vitim and you're used to this. And sure enough! Sure enough I look through your laundry before Arisha gets to it and what do I find?"

Ivan didn't dare answer.

"Sweat stains, everywhere! On your shirts, your vests, your trousers, inside your gloves - Mister _I'm so frozen solid!_ When you're boiling up! So what is it you're trying to hide, hmm? On your arms, show me your arms."

"Sister, Katya, Katyushka, please -"

"Don't you Katyushka me. You roll up your goddamn sleeves right now or I swear by the General's hand I shall rip them off myself."

Glumly Ivan rolled them up, and as she had suspected - covered in little criss-cross marks, some deeper than others.

"They're all over your body, aren't they, you fool," Katya muttered, and Ivan didn't dare answer that, either.

"Trying to bleed yourself of the itch in the shower. Well it doesn't work that way, you can take it from me. You were supposed to clear yourself of your Time by age sixteen, and how long ago was that, hmm?"

Silence.

"I asked you a question, brother."

"Eight years ago," Ivan answered timidly.

"And now you're the first Vitim male to have surpassed twenty-two without having cleared his Time. I simply don't understand why. What was going through your mind? Was this some kind of absurd test of strength, did Samarin bet you you couldn't do it or something? Why would you torture yourself like this, why would you go against nature?"

"Sister, it's _not_, it's not _natural_, God says -"

"That nonsense! The devil cares what Brother Toris and his stupid priests say! May the devil take them all! They're not even Vitim! And the ones that are, they claim, oh, they _claim_ that they've managed to excise the Time from their lives, I don't believe it for a second. They're getting theirs too, they're just not telling anybody, and then they pass it off as some kind of miracle in order to wring more money out of idiots. Idiots like you!"

"Please, I did what I could. The first few years, I - I ignored it because I had been too busy at the time, and it wasn't even all that bad, really it was very easy to ignore. The next few, well - one thing led to another, and - and I just didn't mean for it to - oh, sister, I really am _sorry_," Ivan said, in a tone of voice so distraught it nearly made Katya stop and have pity.

But not for nothing was Katya the head of the Empire Union of Free Vityaz States; times had changed! _She _had changed. And she could no longer afford to be the little girl who cried at the drop of a hat, not when it had been fifteen years since her parents had been assassinated and the rights to the Empire Union fell to the eldest son. Ivan may be the figurehead - there was precious little Katya could do about changing _those_ views - but it was pretty obvious he couldn't do everything. So there was a very strong skeleton behind him, and half of those vertebrae were Yekaterina of Olyokin.

The other half were Natalya of Olyokin, Katya and Ivan's youngest sister. Nearly sixteen herself, headstrong, a natural leader, quite capable and intelligent ... and almost ready for her own Time. If Katya didn't clear Ivan of his one way or another soon, Natasha's would have her know instantly, and it would force her to seek out her own brother like an unthinking madwoman and slake herself with him -

Katya didn't even want to consider it. It would be a nightmare. It would be catastrophic. It would bring about the ruin of their Empire, and Katya knew well of other families - the Dyerovs, the Rubetskis, by means of example - who were waiting in the wings for the least amount of scandal on the Bragins.

And wouldn't the Democratic Republic of Kilnus just love to hear of family infighting amongst the Vitim!

They could not lose face. They _could not_ lose face.

If Ivan had to be forced into it, so be it. There had been a time when he could have done this voluntarily, and that time was long past. "Something must be done of this," Katya told her brother.

Ivan blanched whiter than he already was. "Katyushka, no, please! You have made mistakes, haven't you? I helped you with them, didn't I? Didn't I fix it? When you made mistakes?"

"For the greater good," Katya spoke loudly over him, unhearing of his pleas, "you will remain here, as you have stayed in your own quarters for the previous five months, because your biology no longer allows you to be in the presence of certain others."

"What are you going to do?" Ivan whispered fearfully, as though he already knew.

"I," Katya said, "am going to go get you your first bondservant."

In fear, Ivan whimpered and trembled, and his eyes grew very wide. Like most Vitim, he had the whitest hair, the palest skin - and the deepest, most vivid colour eyes. He knew how to use them - he knew _damn well_ - and he directed the full doleful pleading gaze in all its powers at Katya from the floor where he knelt, begging wordlessly for her to reconsider.

He might as well have looked to the sky for all the good it did. Katya spun on her heel and walked out the door, resolutely paying him no mind.


	3. 3 - Netherlands

_(netherlands)_

It had only been some three years. (Felt like thirty.) About three years before, he'd wandered into a blind trap - obvious once you'd seen it done, and he'd never, ever do it again now that he'd seen how it worked on the unsuspecting (learnt his lesson very well, thanks). This left his sister, the only other member of his family remaining, to pay bail charges lest he be shipped off to the fucking dark side of Luna Halleri.

Only that's not quite the way it had worked out. He was struck every time he tried to speak so he couldn't warn her of the horrid leers present in the men's faces when she entered the room with the requested money. (He didn't know she'd had that much. Didn't know if she had had to borrow, or if she'd just been squirrelling it away for things like this, because really, they happened all the time in the Dordlands.)

Couldn't warn her what they meant. They did not leer with lust for her body. (She didn't often wear flattering clothing anyway.) They leered with lust of money.

And so, they took the credits (a whole big bag full of 'em, and the credit-dollar exchange rate was particularly good then), and barred her exit and knocked her out with thetralorazine.

Two slaves. Two slaves, one of whom had brought cold, hard, _unmarked_ cash, even. Too irresistible to pass up.

He'd like to say he didn't blame them, everyone's got bills to pay (and maybe that's _exactly_ what he would've said, if it hadn't been him and his sister) but after three years of constant ra- - of constant "training", it didn't matter what their excuses were.

He'd find them, he thought bitterly. First he'd find his sister - they'd been separated when she was purchased by another dealer - and then he would find the goddamn pirates that took a freeman (a poor freeman, sure, but still a freeman, and he'd had _rights_ once) and sold him away.

This had been the one thought keeping him from doing like Theodore had. Theodore, and Liesl, and Geraint, and god, so many. He had had those inclinations himself more than once, and he only didn't finish the job because of the haunting image of his sister. (What if she too had killed herself? What if she'd already gone through with it, and he didn't know?)

But the thought vanished quickly on days like these, when he was announced up (by number - 2339, stitched on his heart practically, after they beat it into him) to the front of the building, told to strip, and line up with the others against the yellow line. There were buyers today - some more trustworthy than others, from the looks of it. A fat man to the left (watery red eyes), an older gentleman smartly-dressed (wizened in the face but standing ramrod straight) a lady with a pearl-studded embroidered gown (rich, far richer than someone as poor as him could even imagine).

May luck be on my side, he thought, not sure if that meant, _may I be completely ignored_, or, _may I be purchased by someone kind_. Kindness was in short supply these days. Better hedge bets on the first. The devil you knew versus the devil you didn't.

Over an hour later a tall and imperious man was in front of him and number 9238 - she was another acquisition from the Dordlands, though he'd never met her before this whole thing. The man paid significantly more attention to him than 9238. He gulped. The man was broad, imposing, frowning in a serious and detached, business-like sort of way, with the coldest, cruellest blue eyes he'd ever seen. The glasses didn't diminish the terror, not by half. "Mouth," he stated.

He opened his mouth obediently. It did not do anything good to be disobedient in front of buyers. The man who'd bought them from the pirates - a trader, though he didn't observe many of the rules of Council (that was for fucking sure) - was unafraid of getting his nasty little misbehaving items a little dirty with blood. And you didn't want the buyer that was excited by putting a smart-assed cocksure slave in line.

The man did only the barest cursory check, holding his mouth open and down with a hand around the chin, the thumb on his tongue. His thumb tasted faintly of leather - good quality gloves. He's a rich one, but that didn't say anything about his kindness. Then, the man peered into his eyes, prying the eyelids back. He tried not to blink. Rough hands. Strong, rough hands. He had a bad feeling about this.

Then the man spoke three words that terrified him. "I'll take 'm."

"R-really?" The trader overseeing the show this time was not the man he was used to but rather his grandson, an idiot of a boy. "Are you sure you don't want to take a look around more?"

"Nope. Want this 'n."

"Oh! No, no Signore, I meant, take a closer look at this model."

"Seen all I need."

"Ah...We're pleased to offer private rooms, if, a-heh, if that is Signore's concern -"

"I only want h's _mouth_," the man sneered coldly, and the trader boy cowered and rushed away to prepare paperwork. "C'mon," the man told him, taking the ends of the thick wool rope around his neck, leading him over like a dog. (Just as well the man did most of the work, really; his feet felt like cinderblocks.)

He watched with dread as the trader boy discussed in rapid common Halleri with his brother about the paperwork, while the man - his new owner (oh, oh no, oh god) tapped his foot impatiently, drummed his fingers on the desk, and fiddled with his credit card. After three minutes (felt like ninety) the papers were signed and he was sold - purchased. Owned. For seventy-five thousand credits.

The man - "Y'c'n call me Sir," - gave him a rough robe so that he was not paraded around nude in the market streets, but he was still shoe-less, so it was with care that he followed the man - Sir - out of the store and down the road.

They walked for some time. People looked at them - more Sir than him. People who wore brocade waistcoats and had pocket chains and expensive ivory walking sticks and fancy hats and pleated trousers and clicky shoes - they looked at Sir, who was wearing ultimately nothing out of the ordinary. They looked at him with pride, like he was a man of substance. 'That one has a bondsman,' he felt he could hear them think. 'Who is that man, what is his status? He must be exceedingly rich to afford it.' (Ah, but the discounts you can get at dear Avo Romae's! Long as you don't mind _damaged goods_.)

Finally, Sir led him down the stairs at the train station, and they waited there a spell until, _Number 6 blue line to Vargas International Spaceport and Trusca Central Border Control, that's number 6 blue line_ was called, and Sir stood up. Oh, even better, he thought, as his heart sank - he's an _off-worlder_. He would spend the rest of his life on some rock he'd never been before with a strange man who cared little more for him besides a daily blowjob.

Sir showed the conductor his own pass, and the new bondservant papers - he didn't need a pass at all for the train, because of course you didn't pay extra for your _luggage_ - and received a key in return. Without a word, they embarked, and Sir led him through car after car until they reached an empty cabin. Sir unlocked it, ushered him in, closed the door behind them, locked it again, and drew all the curtains.

He means to do this here? he wondered. But Sir did not say or do anything until the train began to move ten minutes later.

Then, Sir pulled something from his pocket - an Eavesdropper. He'd had a tiny one once, as a child, and he fought the pained, crooked smile that threatened to grace his lips. The tiny brass device whirred, extended its legs, and directed its pupil around twice. It chirped three times at three o'clock.

"Hm," said Sir, and then, "Stay here. Back soon." He left the cabin, locking it behind him.

A few short minutes later he returned. "Sorry,"

The compulsion to say, 'it's okay' was still present, but he fought it down. (Slaves don't speak unless they are asked a question.)

"Vid feed on th' door, no audio. Don' look. Don' think't c'n read'r lips, though, too old. Here," Sir held out an envelope. "Don' op'n it, eith'r. Yer bondspap'rs."

He took the envelope, but was very puzzled about it. "Oh," Sir realised, "'nd y'c'n speak."

"What. What... is this?" His heart began to pound.

"Told you, yer papers. Shred 'm, burn 'm, frame 'm, I don't care. Yer free."

He was silent a moment. "I'm what?" he asked, in a hushed tone.

"You. Are free," Sir said slowly, enunciating his words properly for once, and extended a hand across the table. "'nd call me Sverige. Whuts yer name?"

It took him ten seconds of looking at the hand before he realised he should do something. He extended his own forth, and shook Sir's - Sverige's - weakly. "Um. I -"

"I know they tell you y'd'nt have 'un. I know y'do. Yer not ... y'w're _taken_. I could tell. 'S not right. So. Whu's yer name?"

What _was_ his name? "I -" Tim? Lars, Jos, Morgen? Abel? Or were these people he'd known in servitude before they became numbers? "I don't remember," he said honestly.

"Then pick 'un."

"Why?"

"Yer a freem'n 'gain, y'll need a name. Plus's paperwork we gotta do. At base. When w'get there. Be there soon."

"I - I... I don't know what to say," he replied, fighting tears. "This is. Um. Th-thank you. Thank you _so much_. I - I think I might hug you, if there weren't a vid watching us."

"Smart," Sverige grinned, "I like that.

.:.

Sverige led them back to Nunat, cold planet on the outskirts of the system, four days' jaunt by airship after getting out of Hallar airspace. It was then a few days' travel around Nunat to throw their trackers off the scent. Sverige explained he noticed they were being followed, starting just past the dross surrounding Veshna. They stopped taking the airship around in Arga, Norge and abandoned it for a taxi and driver to the nearby village of Hasterik. They reached Hasterik just before dawn - probably a better idea; Hasterik was a small village and tongues tend to fly in those - and found the two horses outside a tavern located at specific coordinates. They mounted, and rode east in the snow, away from the new sunrise, about 8 AM on a clear Norge winter's day.

Finally, they reached a temporary safe house. Sverige found the wire, hooked it up to the Eavesdropper, and tapped out a message; not long after, one came back, saying they'd be picked up in a day. A day came and went and in the dead of night they stole away like thieves when the stealthship arrived to take them across the ocean to Ísland.

It was pretty obvious Sverige did this a lot.

During that time he found out much about the other man - the airship they had taken was his own and would later be recovered (as was the stealthship, so he no longer felt concerned about the man's loss of 75 thousand credits - though even at that, the money was somehow later recovered). He was free to ask all the questions he liked, since ownership meant it wasn't bugged with anything. (But just because Sverige was nice and friendly once you got past how downright creepy he could be, he proved it with the Eavesdropper again. That might also have had something to do with the way it lit up his face. He couldn't help it. The stupid little gadget just reminded him so much of childhood.)

Sverige was from Arjeda, Sverige - he mentioned, Sverige was clearly not his real name, but that he couldn't give that to a stranger just yet - and worked with a team of associates doing pretty much just what he'd experienced: buying slaves who had clearly been kidnapped and sold into slavery against their volition, and freeing them.

When they arrived at the main base not far from Kroksvellir, Ísland, he was introduced to the crew. There was Danmark, appropriately enough from that same Nunat country, a friendly if ostentatious sort of fellow. And a bit loud. ... A lot loud, really.

There was Norge, named again for the country in question, who appeared quieter. Norge, according to Sverige, also did off-world purchasing. Something about Norge and Sverige gave traders an eerie sort of feeling, and despite sometimes returning to the same trader, again, and again, without any particular disguise, their constant purchases were never questioned. This was very useful.

Danmark's function in the group was as a quick-thinking distractor. Sometimes he was the bait, sometimes he came up with the idea that was 'just crazy enough to work' - and most of the time it did. He once very narrowly escaped a similar fate at the hands of the pirates but through some cleverness managed to scam not only himself, but also his friend, Ísland, with him.

Ísland was another associate, who was very quiet, quieter than Norge. There was a story with Ísland and Danmark, he could feel it ...

Then he got to Suomi, the final member of their motley crew, a chatty, jovial fellow who happily explained the whole story later over aquavit.

Suomi was a former Republic of Kilnus citizen on Olyokin, but despite having been born there he wasn't Kala, he was Vitim. Through a series of unfortunate circumstances, he'd lost a significant amount of money, and this, in addition to politics being what they were on Olyokin, meant he was kind of a social pariah. By the time age 15 rolled around, and his Time came upon him (Suomi told him he'd explain that too, "but in a bit, I need more aquavit first"), he couldn't find anybody in the nearest five hundred klicks who would be willing to help him clear it.

Along came Sverige - Nunat exchange student with an acquaintance's brother - who conjured up an ingenious plan to market Suomi as a slave by selling him into servitude as a high-class bondservant, one with proper training, because upon one's Time, you didn't even need a snap of the fingers to get painfully, achingly hard, so he didn't even have to act the part all that much. Then, later, they'd liberate him. Enter Ísland, the talented forger, who fabricated a whole false lifetime in meticulous, painstaking detail.

It had worked like a charm - and bonus, Sverige had ensured Suomi was bought by someone kind, sweet and caring, so he cleared his Time very peacefully and enjoyably with no trouble at all. ("_Very_ kind and sweet! Perhaps it was a bit mean of us to have stolen five million dollars from him," Suomi added.)

Except that Suomi had met other bondservants in Antonio of Marigon's Emporium ("Well, slaves, really, let's call them what they are," Suomi admitted, and he felt very torn at that), people who weren't trained, people like him. People who'd been taken. People who were beaten and raped into submission because they were free once and this was _not_ their destined life and they _knew it_ and they were not so keen to give up all their rights to become the _sexual possession of another!_ - unlike the trained bondservants, who were blissfully unaware that such rights were even a possibility.

Inadvertently Suomi had uncovered a whole mess of kidnapping, piracy, illegal trading and illegal selling of freemen and freewomen that was going on right under the Council's noses.

Suomi had wanted to bring the issue to Council. Sverige agreed with one modification - they all adopt pseudonyms. Enter again Ísland, who forged their travel documentation and passport and traveller's cards - and while he was at it, forged the airship tickets too, because hey, go big or go home, right?

(Sverige was not impressed, Suomi said. But then again, he added, Sverige had money to burn.)

And of course, the story was pretty straightforward to follow from there on. Council turned a blind eye to wrongdoings because the right people were giving them the right amount of money. Suomi didn't really like that. Council tried to jail Suomi. Sverige didn't really like that. Council attempted to jail both Suomi and Sverige. And then Ísland came in and swept them all away in the nick of time with a stealthship that he'd _somehow_ convinced the Vehicle Service Distribution Centre at Caput Halleri that he owned.

New plan, fuck the system. And _fuck it hard_.

"You gotta let me join," he gushed.

And Suomi beamed widely. "You're smart. I like that."


	4. 4 - England

_(england)_

His first thought was that the boy looked dirty. And that was a shame, after all the water they'd wasted bathing him. Though the main function was really to keep the fever down, it was a valuable resource they'd not get back. But the boy was certainly ill, and if he needed another bath, Kirkland'd try his best to get him one.

Now the aspirin he'd procured, on the other hand. _Those_ he'd coughed up from Desmond, whose dumb idea it'd been to capture a sickly boy (pretty though he may be).

Desmond thought he'd net himself a little prize. "Get me own bondsboy, be like the high-classies, and this here's a beaut!" he'd crowed.

Desmond was thereafter swiftly introduced to the airlock. And Kirkland had taken over the care of the young, sick, pretty Lawtonite.

Not to think there's no honour amongst thieves! (Though, that was also true, but this was not the reason why.) Only where's the fun, the sport in catching the infirm? And you've got to nurse 'em back to a full bill of health yourself, traders don't accept anything weakly. Can't sell a diseased slave. And it took money in playing nursemaid - like money for water. Desmond was a complete idiot and this wasn't his first infraction, so Kirkland had deemed keelhauling with an airsuit too nice a punishment. And now he floated amongst other rubble around Marigon.

Let that be a lesson to the rest of you, he'd told his crew - among whom there had been more than one who liked Desmond. Don't be daft and don't do daft things.

He reflected thus-like, as he mopped the brow of the swooned pretty, very caringly, his hair soft plastered to his front with fever sweat, save one stubborn cowlick - and I bet that's metaphorical, Kirkland thought, bet this one'll spell trouble. He could feel it in his bones. But aside that minor premonition, and the loss of water, Kirkland hadn't minded bathing the boy. Really hadn't minded. Perhaps they might pick him up some sort of robe 'round Fasciemi Anchorage when they passed; all that fit him was the clothes he was taken in, and they were a bit scruffy looking now.

His second thought was for the image of the boy's terrified face, which, as it was for the case of most slaves they took, became indelibly inked onto his brain. He was not a good man, but he was not inhuman. And their suffering left him feeling cold. Starkly lit by the light outside the brig, he saw what he needed to well enough: the boy's wide blue eyes, his parted lips, his chest heaving - a sick part of Kirkland wished it were arousal. Very beautiful boy. Desmond did have an eye for taste.

"Come now, luv," he cooed. "Don't be 'fraid. I want to help, is all."

The boy made no movements, continued to panic silently. Kirkland entered the brig cell as quietly as possibly, though his boots made clicks on the flagstone and his pommel of his cutlass fastened to his hip clinked against the pistol in his holster. Well, pirates weren't ninjas, after all.

Kirkland knelt, and drew the key that fixed the boy to the wall through his little ankle jewellery. The boy didn't move, not even when the fingers poking through Kirkland's shoddy old gloves touched his flesh. "If you don't come with me willingly, I'm not beyond dragging you." Only he couldn't manage to get a tone more threatening than 'scolding mother hen', so the threat of his words was probably lost in translation.

The boy reluctantly stood up and, kicking off the chain, followed him out the cell.

Kirkland took him down the hall to the makeshift interrogation room - an old bunk room in the bilge, so it had locks on the door. But he did not dare turn his back on the boy to engage them. The kid was might still be sick; if he tried anything stupid Kirkland would ultimately be faster. All the same. Paranoia was half the reason Arthur Kirkland was alive and kicking after all that had been said and done. (The other half was sheer dumb luck, and a smidge of cunning.)

"Now then," Kirkland said, "why don't you have yourself a seat and let's us two get started."

The boy did, sitting across from Kirkland on the other side of the ratty old table. Good taste for authority, at least when you were reasonably kind to him. That wouldn't help him at all in the trading shops, where slaves were a goodly amount cheaper and lacked about that much proper training to boot. A buyer would expect to dole out harsher punishments for minor misdemeanours, and kindness would be difficult to find. But maybe they would reward his obedience. "Who are you?"

"Kirkland," he replied, "Arthur Kirkland, Captain of the Great Delivery of Banningham."

"Where's that?"

Kirkland smiled. "No, luv, the Great Delivery's the ship. The ship you're on."

"So, Kirkland of Banningham?"

"No," he snapped. "I'm not _of_ a planet anymore, like you landfolk, so you'd do well to be calling me Kirkland of the Delivery, thanks." The boy looked chastened, so he cooled his tone. "Anyway, I 'spect you know what's happened to you. 'Twas a bit of a mistake, to be honest, ah, usually we don't pick up those who're on the mend. Or in your case, right in the thick of it and needing to be set upon the mend."

"So then you'll take me home?" the boy said brightly.

Kirkland moistened his lips. "Ah. Well, no."

"But if this is a mistake I shouldn't be here -"

"It's a mistake alright, but it's bank error in our favour," Kirkland interrupted. "And we've gone and taken you in now and rested you and fed you up nicely - that costs money! I'm afraid someone like you, with your looks, you'll fetch us quite a sum, and really," Kirkland rocked the rickety table, by means of example, "you can see we jolly well need it. Besides, we're almost at Hallar now, ought to be in her airspace in another day. We've brought you too far to turn back 'round."

The boy sat stock still for a second. Too still. The next, like lightning, he jumped back, his chair falling to the ground, and tried to bolt for the door.

He let him get as far as the door. Boy was fast, for certain. He approved. And he liked the kid's style. But Kirkland was faster, and as the boy hit the door Kirkland hit him from behind, slamming his chest up against it. The boy may have been the taller and broader between them, but Kirkland was the more experienced - and plenty more experienced - and the boy found it difficult to move with his body so effectively and properly hindered. To add insult to injury Kirkland took out his flint-lock, cocked it and put it against the boy's temple.

"This," he hissed in his ear, "is not the kind of behaviour they'll tolerate at the traders, mind -"

"Get off me!" the boy growled, still struggling.

"- unless it's some kind of _fantasy_ of theirs," Kirkland continued, sneering, and then the boy stopped moving against him. "And I don't think you fancy going to someone like that."

"What if we made a deal," the boy asked.

"Pirates like deals," Kirkland replied, "but you've nothing to offer, lad."

The boy turned around - no easy feat with Kirkland's body pressed against his - and faced him. "That's where you're wrong. I think you've made it pretty obvious I myself am worth a good amount." He slowly raised his hand to Kirkland's pistol pointed to his forehead, and instead of turning the pistol away by the barrel, he grasped Kirkland's wrist. The boy tilted it away, and the firearm fell to the ground with a clatter where it fired uselessly. (It was a feint from the start. Kirkland didn't often keep it loaded.) Now that Kirkland's hand was free, the boy smoothed the centre of the palm with his thumb and asked, "How about that kind of deal?"

And _that_ shocked the hell out of Kirkland. Slaves had tried to get out of their new situation, and it had never worked. Kirkland was a very good enforcer, impartial and unswayable. They ... hadn't tried anything like this, to be certain, but Kirkland suspected that if they had, it too would have been about as effective, wouldn't it?

Besides, taking a bondsman for one's self without paying for him was illegal.

But then again, so were half the things Kirkland did...

No, preposterous, this was preposterous.

But his lips ran away from him, it seemed. "I'm listening," Kirkland murmured.

"I, uh, I can cook. And I can clean. You could even teach me some of whatever happens on this ship, I could help out with that -"

"Lad," Kirkland interrupted, "do you _know_ what bondsboys are for?"

The boy swallowed thickly and nodded. Kirkland's eyes followed the bob of the lump in his throat greedily, and he suddenly felt the urge to follow it up with lips and tongue, too. It wasn't supposed to be like this. "I'm supposed to sell you and fetch upwards of two million for you," he clarified. For an untrained bondsperson, that was insane amounts of money. "I need that money. I _want_ that money."

"But maybe you also want something else," the boy said, hooking his other hand - the one that wasn't entwined with Kirkland's own - around Kirkland's cloth belt about his breeches, drawing him nearer. Kirkland's breaths grew short. "You - you seem like you know what happens to people you sell to the traders. Don't, _don't_ do that to me. You're not a bad man -"

That really was it. Enough of this nonsense, the boy would not sweet-talk him out of this. If he didn't put an end to this nonsense charade, well... there wouldn't _be_ an end to it, and either Kirkland'd bed him the once or take him as keeps. Either way, he'd lose the sell and gain, what? An extra mouth to feed, a crimp? At best, a warm and somewhat unwilling body in his bed? He couldn't trust his back to the boy awake, let alone while sleeping.

Kirkland was a man who airlocked people who thought solely with their pricks. He was not one of them himself. And, pretty and clever though the boy was - just his type - he would _not_ be so easily swayed.

Without warning Kirkland slammed his hand and the boy's back against the door, and the boy gasped, and Kirkland had no right to let that sound travel so abruptly to his groin - _no, the money!_ He snapped, "Nor am I a good one. Best learn that."

He yanked the boy off the door by his wrist, then threw it open and stormed back down the halls like a bat out of hell, all the while dragging the poor pretty behind him. "Hey, quit it!" the boy cried. I'll have to deal with you later, he thought. And perhaps in another room, where the boy couldn't try and tempt him.

When he reached the brig doors he threw open the boy's cell and launched him in at the wrist. "Oww, that _hurt_," he growled petulantly.

"I'll have you know," he shouted by way of parting gift, "it could really be worse. I put you in the brig with Chatty Charlie here, so you won't even want for company. I could've put you in with the rest in the cargo hold."

Kirkland slammed the cell door shut without bothering to lock him up at the ankle first. For good reason: "And you're welcome for that set of keys you stole off my belt!" he yelled through the door, as he locked the padlock on the other side. "I hope you enjoy the music they make, because they won't do you any good in there!"

.:.

Kirkland did not particularly enjoy meeting with the traders, because he was usually the one with the most one-on-one time with the slaves. But today was shaping up to be a rather special exception on all fronts.

"Ah, Captain Kirkland," Avo Romae himself greeted him at the station entrance when they docked the Great Delivery at Fasciemi Anchorage. Romae led him down the hall and he followed obediently. They must have made a hilarious pair - giant Avo Romae, in his triple-breasted suit and silk ascot cravat, with tiny Captain Kirkland, in his too-big overcoat and cuffed boots. "This is a surprise. But a pleasant one! I confess we do not speak as often as I would like."

"Our usual trader contact is indisposed at the moment, I'm afraid."

"Ah," Romae said, pushing open a door, and ushering him in, making an overly sweeping 'after you' kind of gesture as though he were a lady being courted. "You must please give my regards to Bosun Desmond."

"Yeah, I'll do that."

"Please, Captain, be seated." So Kirkland sat opposite Avo Romae, a rickety wooden table between them. This was starting to look painfully familiar.

"I hear the recent raids in Nova sector were most successful," Romae began.

"Yes, extremely," Kirkland replied, "We got about thirty off New Joplin and New Sainte Dolitte. Decent ones, in excellent condition. We're also carrying Unsinkable back from Hallar."

"Oh, _that_ one. He's still around?" Kirkland nodded. "I thought Hallar would have found someplace to sell him."

"There's no place on Hallar what would take him. They've all heard the stories - which are mostly worse than the truth, but people don't care. He's nigh on infamous. I don't think he'll ever be properly sellable."

"Hmm," Romae said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Romae was a big man, with a big chin and big fingers. Curly, thick brown hair, and a gutly, boisterous, obnoxious laugh. He didn't often dress not in armour, so Kirkland suspected that beneath the suit and shirt was the golden chestplate Kirkland recalled best about the man. "That's a shame. He's very cute, but as you say, his nickname is well-deserved. Unsinkable indeed! Why, I myself had a turn at him and I couldn't get him under. If you want, I can find someone who enjoys that kind of thing. Finally take him off your hands. The Delivery seems to be the one carrying him here and there."

"With respect, if Antonio of Marigon and the rest of Hallar can't find a buyer, I don't know that you can -"

"No, you misunderstand me, Kirkland," Romae said, smiling gently, and Kirkland felt vaguely unsettled. "I meant more someone who enjoys the chase, the pursuit, the hunt of such game ... and the eventual kill."

A _snuff buy_. That was just bloody fantastic. Kirkland didn't like Unsinkable any more than anyone else did on his crew, but the boy was amusing, clever, and incredibly witty, in addition to being exceedingly attractive. He'd be the last to admit it but he'd grown on him. Kirkland forced his mouth to smile and his head to nod. "I'll think about it." Absolutely not. Under no circumstances.

"See that you do." There came a knock at the door. "Hmph. I thought I requested no interruptions. _Excusa_, Captain." Romae stepped outside the small room and closed it behind him, leaving Kirkland alone for a minute.

"Returning to business," Romae said, when he reentered, but he did not sit down, instead folding his massive forearms over his broad chest and leaning on the door casually. Kirkland wasn't convinced. "I have just heard some very interesting news from my grandson. Lovino's sources tell him you left Bosun Desmond back at Marigon."

What was this, a cross-examination? "That's internal ship business, that is," Kirkland said defensively, "I'm not obliged to report that."

"Of course not, of course not. The really interesting thing isn't what you did, it's _why_ you did what you did." And Romae grinned very widely. "Your bosun for an untrained bondservant? They must be awfully pretty."

"He's not bad," Kirkland said, shrugging.

Romae grinned wider still, if that were possible. Kirkland felt very like prey against a shark and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "That's how I know he must be pretty. I want first dibs on the purchase."

"You've not seen him yet!"

"I've no doubt I can get an easy million, perhaps two. One who makes you blush so hard must be beautiful indeed, so I'm not concerned about the temperament. I'd take a personal interest in his training."

Before having spoken to the boy he would have felt only slightly guilty at pawning him off onto Avo Romae, who was ... not the nicest trader out there. Now, he was almost certainly convinced he didn't want to see the boy sold at all. If anybody, he should go to Francis, who would bed him, yes, but would also probably coddle him like a pet until his dying days. A far cry from freedom, perhaps. But a better treatment than at the hands of Romae.

"You'd sell him in store?"

"Do you have a better idea?" Romae asked.

Actually... yes. Kirkland made a show of looking left and right. "You got an Eavesdropper on you?"

"No, but this place is friendly to me."

"Since when?" Traders and sellers of all kinds passed through here, in addition to pirates, privateers, and - if his gut instinct was correct - the Council as well, because after about twenty years of piracy, they must know about these activities.

"Since I gutted it for vids and feeds and gave the Councillors who put them there a free vacation orbiting outside Tenickson," Romae replied coolly.

Pride goeth before a fall. That kind of jinxy talk on a ship could get one's mouth washed out with a bar half made of lye. But Kirkland didn't care about actually being observed. The point was to act paranoid to get Avo Romae hooked so that he'd do what Kirkland wanted him to, and acting the part well was crucial. "Look, well I'm confident you can get up to three, maybe four mil for the boy on his own. But. Here's the thing. The Decennial Auction's coming up. If you sell him there I've no doubt you can triple, maybe quadruple the initial value."

The image of the boy's wide eyes, so close to his - bright, clearest blue, like zenith sky on Banningham - haunted him as he said these words, and speaking them felt somehow like betrayal. But as Romae laughed and shook his hand, breaking half the fingers in the process, Kirkland consoled himself. Having the boy at auction - which was quite soon, what harm could befall him in the few weeks he'd spend in the Delivery's brig? - would increase his chances of finding some way to rescue him.

Whether he wanted to buy the boy to free him, or keep him, now, that was the next question.


	5. 5 - Liechtenstein

_(liechtenstein)_

"Where are we going, Gospozha Katya?"

"We are on an adventure, my darling."

She did not often question Gospozha Katya. Katya had provided for her for a long time now, but not so long that she had forgotten what it was like _before_. She was younger then, when she first met Katya. When Katya came to Francis' place and requested someone small, someone young, someone to nurture. Someone kind and caring and sweet.

She was all of those things. And she was pretty, with bright green eyes that weren't common on Olyokin and short blonde hair.

Her style of hair was her last remaining vestige of her brother, whose picture was taken away from her at primary. She clutched to it like a security blanket and was willing to fight for her right - as though she had any rights - to keep her last memory of him.

Katya let her keep it without a single word of protest. She had liked Katya instantly.

But occasionally, there were times when her curiosity got the better of her. And she wanted to know, to be free to question. She wondered about Ivan - Katya's normally very friendly younger brother. When she arrived at the Duma, so many years ago, Ivan had taught her basic science and math. He taught her astronomy. He taught her Zvanie so that she could read Vitim poetry and literature, although for conversation, they always used Common Standard.

She had not seen Ivan for over three years now, and it was only through speaking with Gospozha Katya that she even knew he was still alive. She missed Ivan dearly. He was kind and sweet.

She had her quarters, however, and she did not venture outside them without Gospozha Katya. Today was one such rare occasion. The airship was clean and quiet and smaller than her private quarters, which were already small. It could contain perhaps four other people. The driver was a large man, with dark hands the colour of coffee, and covered in thick, wiry hair; probably not Vitim, but not Kala either. Maybe an off-worlder, maybe one of the smaller countries that had been taken over. He was pleasant enough, a hoarse, deep-voiced man, and smelled of smoke. His pants and shoes were clean.

She did not see his face. As befitting her position she kept her eyes on the ground.

When they arrived safely in Hallar airspace a day later, and then a few hours after that, upon Hallar itself, in the city of Caput Halleri, Katya took her hand. "I will warn you, my darling, that we are returning to the same market which you may remember from fifteen years ago. This may be painful for you," Gospozha Katya warned.

"I go where you go," she replied simply.

-

She did remember it, in the end. The market was unfamiliar but she had never strayed outside of Francis' Emporium to begin with. She saw dust on dirt roads. Hooves of horses and their droppings, too. Her good shoes clicking on the roadstone - Katya had had her dress decently for this trip, in her nice calico skirt, Darlington blouse and one of the Devushka Natalya's old black belts.

Once they entered the Emporium doors, however, she was assaulted by her memories. Really, Gospozha Katya was too good to her, because she gasped aloud - slaves were to be seen and not heard - tightened her hold on Katya's hand and raised her eyes to look around.

Katya did not strike her. Instead Katya squeezed her hand lightly in return. Strength, she thought, and lowered her gaze.

"Gospozha Yekaterina of Olyokin! You are a delight to my skies, as always," came a voice she hadn't heard in well over a decade. Half a lifetime ago.

"Francis of Bast, now Hallar," Katya greeted him. "And you to mine. You received my message?"

"I did," he replied, "and we should talk in a more private setting. You can leave your bondswoman -"

"Bonds_maiden_," Katya corrected. In fact, she was twenty-six this past month, but she still looked fourteen. It had been like that since the day Katya had purchased her. She imagined when she died, she would look half her age and far too young for a casket.

"Ah. Yes. Well, you may leave her here." Francis rose his voice in command, "_Ici!_" and spoke a few words in his language to the servant - probably an unbought bondsperson - but 'ici' was the only one she recognised. _Come here at once. _

Her left foot moved, itching to step forward in acknowledgement of the command. She felt a strange buzzing in her temples - _I am disobeying a direct order!_ -

But then Katya's hand left hers, and she returned to herself. She felt the presence of her _dorogaya Gospozha_ leave the room to ascend the staircase that she recalled was concealed behind curtains, and she was left alone with this new fellow.

"They're gone now," he said, his voice very quiet, and she looked up and around.

The shop was not quite as she remembered. Francis had evidently moved the furniture around. That was understandable; it had been fifteen years since she had last set foot in this room. "I am amazed he hasn't left this old place and set up shop elsewhere," she commented.

Then the - boy? man? difficult to tell. Young male person, at any rate, in better garb than a servant's - and he lacked the tell-tale belt - with wavy blonde hair, like Francis', and eyes the colour of Ivan's, only brighter. Skin very pale, like Ivan's. But shorter, and less strong, it seemed (she liked him instantly.) - anyway, he smiled. "Francis wouldn't," he replied, "he does too much business out of this location. He's tied down now. It would be more trouble to tell everybody of the relocation and he'd lose customers. This isn't the time to lose customers."

She felt a bit freer now. There were no other bondspeople with them in the Duma. Occasionally a duke brought his newest plaything. Then she could have a proper conversation, where she could speak with liberty, could be curious. But aside from that, the past three years had been very quiet. It was very quiet without Ivan. "Business isn't good?" she inquired, a question she might be struck for, for asking.

"Well," the unbought bondsman began, "it isn't terrific, no. The pirates have become more successful in dodging the legislators recently. It means cheaper bondservants, so now the middle class can purchase one for perhaps a hundred thousand dollars."

Katya had paid an even three million for her - and that was 15 years ago - accounting for inflation it simply couldn't compare. "But they can't be nearly the same quality," she protested.

"They aren't," he confirmed. "But the buyers don't know that until they take home their purchases. And then they get angry and upset and speak poorly of the sellers in the market, and inevitably someone overhears and thinks they mean people like Francis, and then the rumours start flying, and Francis has to quell the rumours himself."

"Oh," she said.

"I couldn't say anything about it - what right has someone like me to warn a freeman that his purchase is inferior quality? Even if I could prove it, how rude! And they don't treat the bondservants nicely, when they prepare them for sale. Meanwhile, you've people like Francis, who have been doing this for years, and it isn't inexpensive to raise bondservants the way he does." She agreed in her mind. She had been treated excellently, before and after her purchase. Strangely enough Francis's Emporium only got larger and larger, and yet he never wanted for money. She didn't question these things. "But you'll remember Francis' ambition. Give love to the world, and be repaid in kisses and affection."

"A man like that being cheated by lawless people stealing and selling freefolk. It isn't fair. But," she reflected, "neither is life."

The unbought bondsman grinned widely. "Someone very wise taught you that," he said. "Do you remember who it was?"

And then she looked at him, _really_ looked at him, and realised her comfort hadn't had anything to do with his resemblance to Ivan. In fact, her comfort with Ivan was such because of Ivan's resemblance to this man. Man, certainly, because he must be twenty-seven now. "Oh my goodness," she breathed, "it's _you_."


	6. 6 - France

_(france)_

"I would ordinarily be recording this session for quality purposes," he said, "but I have a sneaking suspicion that you do not want recording devices." The Gospozha Bragina was a beautiful woman, and it was a shame for her to have hidden her beauty in this way, Francis thought. She wore gloves and had dressed in a heavy overcoat that masked her magnificent curves, revealing only a long skirt jacket over several petticoats. She had looped a dark scarf about her head, neck and face in such a way that it concealed everything but her eyes. As for her eyes, she still wore her winter glasses, thick frosted white lenses set in ornate silver frames, covering the darker colour of her irises.

It was a full 30 degrees above freezing in Caput Halleri today. The woman was either insane, or incognito.

"You are correct," she replied, removing the scarf and glasses and exposing her face, likely for the first time since having landed on Hallar. She removed from her overcoat pocket a small round brass object and set it on Francis' desk. It whirred, then suddenly two arms sprung out of either side, unfurled like ferns, and it stood on these tiny, spindly limbs. The top half of the sphere opened like a telescope dome, then again like a camera lens, revealing underneath a whitish substance, bearing a red dot - far too like an eyeball with two eyelids for Francis' tastes. It scanned the room quietly. Two revolutions later it chirped once.

"Was the Eavesdropper really necessary, Gospozha Bragina?"

"You're not the one I distrust, Francis. And I have told you time and again, you may call me Katya." She tapped the tiny automaton on the head and it chirped once before curling back into its original form. "Certainly you deserve it for the excellent services you provide me."

"One sale fifteen years ago and we are on first name diminutive terms! Ah, my lady. I wish all my customers were so easy to please. Well then. I take it the secrecy means you're not here for yourself."

"In fact, I'm not. This is for my brother."

"Ivan, yes? He was in the news some time ago but I haven't seen anything of him since."

"Precisely," Katya replied grimly. "He's six years my junior. But my Time - no doubt you sell to Vitim often, despite the off-worlding restrictions - my Time was fifteen years ago."

Francis did the math in his head. "And that means his Time ought to have been no more than six years after you, accordingly. Yes, I had hoped I would see you again around then for another sale. Of course I don't know who it is that you purchased from for him, but there were no problems? You checked the seller was covered under the Council?"

"That is the problem. I see no point in shopping around for these kinds of things. You find a good dealer and you stick with them. And you, Francis, are an excellent dealer. Qualified, proficient and best of all, discreet." The compliment brought a smile to his face, but her next words were significantly less friendly. "We did not buy anything for him. I thought he had made his own arrangements. He did not. Although I have not ordered any medical testing, I believe Ivan has artificially postponed his Time."

"I didn't know you could do that."

"You can't. Not forever, anyway. He's been cutting, I think, to stave off the itch in the veins. That seems to have worked for awhile. He has been drinking to stave off the priapism. Plenty of hot showers. Probably masturbating himself into a coma nightly in order to sleep - it is a wonder his right forearm is not the size of my face."

Francis couldn't help it, he outright laughed. "I'm so sorry, my dear! You have a way with words." Katya was graceful enough to permit a smile on her own part, despite the matter really not being very funny at all.

"I think it is mostly fear on his part. Fear of what he may become. You don't ... you don't know what it is like, you have heard the stories but it doesn't compare. You lose control of your thoughts and your mind, you become impulsive... Need is the only thing you know, your only master. And this is just the psychological half. I understand his fear, to a point. If I could eliminate the Time from the Vitim, I would. But there is no other alternative and frankly, he's being a baby."

"It's strange," Francis commented, "nobody else experiences anything of the like. Just the Vitim."

"Yes, well, I can't explain that. My studies have been in politics, not evolutionary biology. At any rate, I think this is what has caused him to turn to religion for some kind of salvation. The problem is the religious sect he has chosen is Priegyl, Order of Vynas - mostly Kala ascribe to it - and they do not have our biology. Nor do they understand it, nor do they wish to. So they see the Time as some sort of absurd pagan ritual as opposed to what it really is: a messy rite of puberty that your body chemistry forces you to undergo regardless of how much you pray to a god you are told loves you as long as you _just don't succumb_."

"You could ban the religion."

"Ah, I am sorely tempted to ban _all_ religion. But the Empire already controls much of the way of life. I am not certain how much more interference will be tolerated before revolution becomes inevitable."

"I confess I don't understand such regimes. If it works, it works, I suppose."

Katya sighed. "I should think sustainability, think of future generations. But more and more these days, I only care whether it will work as long as I am alive. If I can get us through the next fifty years without war, I'll call myself successful." She clapped her hands. "But. The matter at stake?"

Francis smiled and nodded like the good capitalist businessman he was.

.:.

Katya's needs had been simple, many years ago. She had wanted someone who was youthful, meek. Gentle, and "attractive, too, if you have it". Someone who would stay small. Having had her childhood ripped from her, Katya had wanted more than someone to fuck. She wanted someone to take care of, someone to coddle. She wanted a perpetual daughter who could never leave her.

Francis, of course, knew just the bondsgirl in question - eleven years, looked nine - and judging from the girl's happy outward appearance in the entrance hall of the Emporium, Francis had selected wisely.

What Francis didn't know about the Vitim still took up a library, but Katya was happy to fill in the details. "Ivan is tall for a male," she mentioned, "and strong, almost absurdly so. I suspect prolonging the Time will increase his violent side."

"You'll want someone hardy," he replied.

"More than just hardy. More than just one that's seen a bit of snow. Though that must also be satisfied - one that can withstand the temperatures and blizzards. You know the weather on Olyokin. But we must remember Ivan is not himself these days and _that_ is ultimately the deciding factor."

"Can he be appeased somehow? Does he prefer men?" How violent did Katya mean? Francis had been given a lovely young woman recently, exceedingly feisty, very hardy. He didn't often take strays, and had been obliged through a series of unfortunate events - oh, it was a sordid tale - to take her on from another seller. It would certainly be convenient to find her a home with the Bragins of Olyokin because properly training her for service was almost impossible at this late stage.

"I have seen him express absolutely no preference one way or the other," Katya said, shaking her head, "but at this point it is irrelevant. A male will have to do. And a strong male. Any other, there is a chance he may inadvertently kill it. I want to spare my brother that suffering."

"I understand completely," Francis demurred impassively, though the words terrified him and impressed upon him the seriousness of the case. He could not deny his affection for his charges, before he sold them. He would be a monster to do otherwise, he reared them all from very, very young ages! To think of any one of his beauties meeting such an end - simply unthinkable.

"One that isn't terribly young," Katya continued.

"You want experience?"

She smirked. "Francis, I have no doubt that you rear your charges just like every other seller in this city. You have undoubtedly sampled the wares."

Francis flushed. Katya did indeed have a way with words. "Th-that's how you train them," he replied. "I would never take such illegal liberties." There was a difference between training bondspeople to be sold, and enjoying the pleasures of a harem that, when you got bored of it, you could simply trade away. Naturally, the difference was the exorbitant sales tax on the purchases owed to the Halleri government.

"My dear Francis. You do not question the way I do my business and so I do not question the way you do yours. It was only an observation. I want one that's experienced and worldly enough not to be completely thrown off by Ivan's state. I want it to know what it's getting into. It will have to be Vitim-trained."

"All of my available people are," Francis replied, which was a half-truth; his latest acquisition, the wild-caught from Antonio of Marigon had no such training. But he did not really consider her available. "I believe I have just the candidate."

He whistled for Matthieu before Katya had a chance to re-do her scarf. "Fetch Eduard," he told him in Frankish. Matthieu nodded and disappeared.

"Should I be worried about that one?" Katya asked. "The only people who know of my being here are my bondswoman and yourself."

"Ah, that is not a bondsperson. That is my son, Matthieu. My eyes and ears. Most people do not pay him any mind so I doubt you have anything to fear." Katya looked unconvinced. "He was there the entire day you bought your own bondsperson, and you didn't notice his presence at all." Again, half-truths.

There came a jingle of the bells behind the curtain. "Enter," Francis called, again in Frankish - he knew who it was - and Matthieu brought forth the unbought soul in question, a plain, young-looking thing with blond hair and expressive face, now hidden behind a mask of impassivity. But looks were deceiving. Despite being as old as Matthieu - no more lines than his favourite, his skin no less tight - Eduard somehow looked more mature. For Matthieu, his invisibility helped to keep him at Francis' side. For Eduard, it had been the air of wisdom, of cleverness and wit, that had thrown many potential buyers off during the years. Nobody wanted a slave that was smarter than they were.

Francis had never let that bother him. He knew very well Eduard's talents. He had spent over a decade honing them carefully. He would miss them.

"Matthieu, thank you. Please be seated." Matthieu nodded and took a chair behind Francis' large desk - a wise move.

Eduard wore typical slave garb, a faded black vest hung open over a simple white cotton shirt. Drawstring trousers of soft grey linen, tucked into knee-high lace-up boots, with a canvas belt about his hips containing the necessary essentials as befitting a bondsperson. He looked perfectly unassuming, and yet his gaze betrayed a certain unmistakeable fire, saying, _yes, it's true_, he was a servant - he had always been a servant, and he would always be a servant - but he was a damn good one.

Francis didn't miss the look of approval that only briefly flitted through Katya's eyes like a bright red hummingbird. This would be an easy sell.


	7. 7 - Lithuania

_(lithuania)_

"...and she's being really really awful but I'm not allowed to tell you why and Brother I think she'll actually make me go through with, with - with _it_, but it's a sin, and - oh, what do I _do?_"

"Calm down!" Toris scolded. "Calm down, there, it's okay. It's okay. Have another drink," he said, and poured Ivan of Olyokin another glass of the vodka he'd brought.

Half of that bottle was now in Ivan's belly. It would ordinarily be very difficult to hear Ivan in the tavern. The tavern was on a nightly basis filled with the very loud and brass, and Ivan had a shy, quiet, almost childlike voice, higher in pitch than one would expect for a man of his stature. Possibly because he hadn't cleared his Time yet, for which Toris was mostly to blame. But it fit his personality like a glove. Ivan was sweet, kind, gentle.

And about to become a complete monster.

Ivan gulped down the vodka gratefully. "I am so thankful God does not look askance towards alcoholism," he said. "Praise Him."

"Praise him," Toris - _Brother_ Toris - replied in kind, with a smile, and clinked his glass with Ivan's. "Now, as to what you should do - why not simply tell her how you feel? It is a sin to lie with one in servitude for it is a sin to commit human beings to servitude. All human beings are first under servitude to god."

"I tried to tell her, it didn't work. I didn't get another chance to talk to her before she left this morning." Getting closer to the moment of truth. Toris poured Ivan another glass and bade him drink. _And tell me, oh liquored one, where is it your sister went._

"But this is your chosen faith. She must respect that, as your sister. You are the head of this family, she must answer to you. And is not the will of god your chosen path?"

"It is," Ivan said quietly, sincerely, placing a hand over his heart, "oh, it _is_. If He can love me ... perhaps someday I can trust in Him to love myself."

"God loves you very much," Toris affirmed, but it didn't appear to soothe Ivan too greatly. He added more vodka to Ivan's glass. "You are beloved of him. I assure you, he speaketh through me, and I tell you now, pilgrim, continue to accept him in your heart, and he will help you remedy this cancer in yourself. I understand - perhaps not quite as you do - the way that sexual lust can quietly eat up a person on the inside. But lust is not of god. God is always with you. Keep your heart with all diligence, my young one. That is all you have to do."

"But what about the - no, no I cannot say."

_Oh? What about the what?_ "Let me help you," Toris cooed, placing a hand over Ivan's.

Wrong move. Ivan tore his hand away like it burned. "Don't, you mustn't."

"I apologise," Toris said, and put his gloves back on, "You know I'm not Vitim. I don't know what your sister is about to do. Can I help in some way?"

"She's -" Ivan cut himself off again. "No, I cannot. I _cannot_."

"I understand," Toris said, with a placating smile. "Remember: 'For this is the will of god, of sanctification - that you should abstain.'"

"'Abstain from the fleshly lust which is against the soul,'" Ivan completed, and began to weep.

"But god is compassionate," Toris continued, moving closer, wiping away Ivan's tears with his gloved hand, "he is a loving father. Replace those desires with a desire after the word of god. Prayerfully resist your urges."

"God will hear me, even if my thoughts are so muddled and, and _ruined_, won't He?" Ivan whispered. "I can - I can no longer meditate as deeply as I could, once." He finished his drink, slamming the glass back onto the table, and didn't notice Toris pour him yet another. His voice grew louder, more frenzied. "What if He _can't_ hear me? What then? What if Katya manages to find me, and- and- and she traps me where I am and brings them inside, and and what if I _kill it?_" And Ivan burst into tears on Toris' shoulder, sobbing. "Oh, God!"

"Shh," Toris breathed, into his ears very softly, "you have no cause to regret as long as you are learning how to yield to the leading of the spirit of god within you." _But more importantly, tell me, Ivan, who is this 'them'? Who is 'it'?_

"You - you don't understand!" Ivan said, his face red, his eyes wild, and pulled back, gripping the throat of the hood on Toris' fraternal cloak. "I am not being overdramatic. My - my urges have become more than simply sinful, I want - _I want_," and he leaned in and croaked it hoarsely against the flesh of Toris' neck, where it was exposed. "The lust has somehow turned into something else entirely, I do not merely want to slake some silly physical lust, I need to crush bone, I need to render flesh from limb, I want to rip arms off and use them as clubs to bash its stupid face in, want to make a coat of the skin of the stupid bondservant my sister is buying me -"

Toris was, very suddenly, no longer the least bit drunk. He fought to keep his voice straight and calm despite the fear that turned his insides to mush. "My brother," he interrupted, "my brother in god. Peace. Let the peace of god, which transcends all understanding, guard your heart and mind in blessed, sacred unity. Remember god in your heart and mind, and you will not sin, nor succumb to lust nor murder. These are _sins_, my brother. But let the love of god make you strong. Rely on him."

He let Ivan cry on his shoulder, murmuring about _peace_ and _love_ and _you are sacred_ and all sorts of other bullshit for another fifteen minutes. Then he called for a taxi and helped Ivan into the horse-driven carriage when it pulled up outside the tavern.

.:.

"That _witch_ is about to ruin ten long years of hard work!" Toris shouted angrily, pulling his Order of Vynas cloak off and throwing it in a corner.

"Yeah, so hello to you too," Feliks replied, looking up from where he sat performing ship repairs. "What's up?"

"I just told you what's up! Ivan is close. Like _close_, close, _danger_ close. And now I hear Bragina's gone off-world! I don't know where, but it's what we thought it was for, it must be - she's getting him a bonds person."

"A few years too late," Feliks said with a snort. "Did he say where she went? Like what planet? Any way we can prove it? If there's no actual proof -"

"No," Toris replied dully, "he didn't know. Bragina didn't tell him."

"Huh. She usually tells him everything. Think she might, like, suspect something?"

"Maybe. Hard to say. Too early to tell." Toris brought forth the small brass Eavesdropper from the pocket of his breeches and handed it over to Feliks. "See what you can do with that. At one point he was sobbing into my robes and then he tipped over a glass of vodka into my lap, so I think it might've gotten wet but it should be okay."

Just then Raivis returned. "So I- oh, hey, Toris. You're back."

"Did you get anything?"

"Why, I've been very well, thanks for asking," Raivis replied tartly. "Depends. What'd you get?"

"Something about going off-world. I'm thinking bonds servant," Toris admitted, "it isn't much."

But Raivis laughed. "No no, that's great! You'll never guess what the driver said." And he didn't wait for Toris to ask him before he replied, "Bragina and her bondsgirl left for _Hallar_."

"Where do you think they went?"

"Knowing Bragina?" Raivis guessed. "The exact same place they went the first time. She hardly ever leaves, she definitely never leaves for _Hallar_."

Francis Soderne's Emporium. Bragina was a creature of habit most times. If she were buying a bonds servant she wouldn't go anywhere else. She didn't trust anyone else. "If we can prove she was there -"

"Then it's proof her darling brother's _close _- maybe even on the edge of breakdown -"

"And the family's vulnerable as all hell -"

"Which means the other Vitim families will totally want to know about this. I'll get the Rubetskis' forces ship-shape," Feliks said. "They should've known about this yesterday!"

"Well I'm _sorry_," Raivis complained, not sounding very apologetic, "I couldn't meet with the driver until this morning!"

Toris gave him a wan smile. This meant work - a _lot_ of it, and probably none of them would sleep tonight. But almost a decade of careful work was at long last coming to a head. It would be one final nail in the coffin of this godforsaken corrupt empire, for the glory of the Democratic Republic of Kilnus.

And Toris couldn't wait for the dawn of a better tomorrow.

.:.

**Notes:** that's all for today! If you like it, please follow this story for future updates! Updates will be regular, every two to three days or so. Thank you for reading! :D


	8. 8 - Estonia

_(estonia)_

The woman circled him, studying. When he saw her boots make two full revolutions around him, he heard her ask, "It speaks Common Standard?"

"He does."

There was some silence. "What is your name?" she asked, this time to Eduard.

A trick question. Francis got funny with his pronouns; she could tell. Most people considered bondservants as items. But perhaps it was impossible to foster 'items' for so long, fuck them at least once a week for over ten years, and not develop some sort of strange attachment to them. "I do not have one, Madame," Eduard replied.

"Gospozha. You will address me as Gospozha."

"Yes, Gospozha."

She turned her attention back to Francis. "Did you give it a name?"

"Of course I didn't," Francis lied.

Eduard kept his expression very firmly fixed, wondering whether Francis was also thinking of not three days ago, when he had taken Eduard from behind over the desk where Matthieu was seated, and chanted his name like a litany.

"When was this one brought to you?" the woman asked.

"He was five at the time. Like yours. In fact he is of the same crop as she was, so he has the same origins, same community. He is the last one remaining, it has been years since I have sold all the others." Born on Veshna, to Subscript families who donated their children for adoption to the Legislative Council of Bondservice People. He had been told he was a beautiful boy. He had probably won his biological parents some decent money. And of course, Francis paid even more for him five years later. "He and your bondsgirl attended the same nursery, the same primary."

So did Matthieu.

"His skills and intelligence?"

"Top-notch in every way." In fact they were superlative. His intelligence levels through the years had consistently outranked everybody on Veshna except for a select few individuals; those children were later kept behind and given up to adoption clinics for families, and they became daughters and sons instead of service people. He was not one of them, and he could never quite figure out why. Maybe it was the same thing that made him unsellable as a bondsman. _A white bonnet_ to some, _a bonnet that is white_ to the other.

But it didn't really matter. His life with Francis had been decent and from what he'd heard he couldn't complain.

"Undress," the woman said, and he began to do so without a word. "But leave the spectacles in place," she added.

Matthieu and Eduard shared stories when the others were asleep. Stories that Matthieu had overheard Francis telling his associates, stories in Frankish (that might have been the prime reason for Matthieu having learned the language - it wasn't anything like the language of Veshna). Stories about how other bondspeople were taken, how they were free once and then taken much later, sometimes in the night when they couldn't do anything, sometimes by force and submission. Eduard thought that would be much worse than having never really known freedom. After all, he was created for this purpose. He was _made_ for this.

And not all keepers were nearly as kind about everything as Francis was. The training wasn't very gruelling, they were well-fed, clothed and bathed, Eduard was permitted activities like exercise and reading and making friends. They bought him glasses when he tested poorly for eyesight and Francis didn't strike him very hard when he was belligerent - in fact Francis hadn't struck him in longer than he could remember. Life with Francis was very good.

It was just that, at the end of the day he knew he would be bought and paid for and sent home with someone. Hopefully it would be someone nice. Someone who he could please readily for the rest of his days and who would keep him as well as Francis did.

Perhaps the problem with him, he thought, as he unlaced his boots efficiently and tugged the linen drawstring pants out of them, was that he had somehow deduced, somewhere along the line, that there was more to this life than what awaited him. And that just because he didn't dare _ask_ for anything more than a well-kept slave's life, didn't mean he didn't desire it.

He stood nude in front of a stranger's scrutinous eye, his gaze on the floor.

The woman came closer this time and took his arm, twisting it, following the response of the muscles. He passively let her direct his body however she liked. "Is it used to heavy lifting?" she asked.

"Some," Francis admitted. "He is not frail, as you see."

"No, that's true," and she pinched the muscles of his waistline firmly. "Though the musculature is not very well-developed either."

"Perhaps, but his control over his muscles is magnificent, and he is far stronger than he looks, I assure you," Francis said, and it was then that Eduard suspected something was different. He had been inspected before, and subsequently turned down. These were not the kinds of questions that usually got asked. They were not the kind of remarks usually made.

Why would they want me to be strong? he wondered.

"The standard response method hasn't changed?" she asked.

"Of course not. Same as it always has been. Allow me?"

"No," she replied. There came the sound of shifting cloth - she was removing her gloves. "I'll do it myself," she said. She brought her fingers up, level with his chin, and snapped them loudly.

Eduard was almost instantly erect, and the other symptoms followed as usual - the gooseflesh on his arms, on his calves, the tingling crawling anticipation just beneath his skin. He forced his breathing back to normal but his pulse kept racing up. She didn't touch him and he wouldn't be hers either, but it didn't matter to his brain. Conditioned for that response, he had to fight to keep from swaying near her, seeking out her warmth, of which he was now keenly aware.

Behind him, he heard the smallest breathy exhalation from Matthieu. Francis trained all his slaves impeccably and it had after all been twenty years of training. For each of them.

"Torch?" the woman asked, and Francis handed her a flashlight.

She brought forth a magnifying glass on a chain from the pocket of her overcoat and began her inspection with the mouth. He let his jaw fall lax at her touch so that she didn't have to direct him. She opened his mouth, cupping his jaw, and did a cursory sweep with the light and eyeglass. Satisfied, she closed it, and tilted his head back. He closed his eyes as she directed the bright beam into his nostrils. "Hm," she said finally, and tilted his head forward again to inspect the eyes.

He didn't like having his eyelids held open, but he liked much less the bright light shone in them, especially when Francis' office wasn't all that well-lit to begin with. She was blessedly quick about it, and about the cursory check she did on his torso. When she arrived at his penis she said, "You didn't have it cut," to Francis.

"I don't believe in cutting," Francis replied smoothly. "Some say it's easier to keep clean, but I believe you lose sensitivity in the region if you do. Not a trade-off I am fond of."

The woman didn't reply. She took hold of the organ just below the head, pushing towards the base, which slowly dragged the foreskin over the swollen head - can't help how _good_ this feels but don't lean into it, don't _don't_ - she released him after what felt like simultaneously a full five minutes and a split second. He hoped she saw something she liked.

"Soft skin," she said.

"All of my stock self-moisturises religiously," Francis supplied.

"Good. My brother likes soft things. Turn around. Hands on the desk, lean forward." Francis handed her a pair of plastic medic's gloves in exchange for the flashlight.

Eduard did as she asked. Something must have betrayed him in his expression - maybe Matthieu just knew him that well - because the other man mouthed, _strength_, and gave him a quick thumbs-up. Easy for him to say; nobody had ever asked to inspect Matthieu before. As she entered a finger into him he found it helpful to concentrate on Matthieu's eyes.

Thankfully she did not lubricate the gloves, and his erection fell a bit. But only a bit, so that when she reached the section he knew she was looking for, and stroked a sly finger over it, it was still so horribly blissful it nearly hurt. Somehow he managed to keep his body from jerking around. How's _that_ for muscle control, he thought, as she did it again, and again, and he kept himself so still he didn't even twitch. Matthieu looked impressed and was trying not to grin outright, but his eyes were glimmering with pride and amusement.

Finally she removed her finger and he heard the glove snap off from behind him. "I like its restraint. Still, a bit thin. Well, it will have to do. What do you want for this one?"

"Generally, for him? I would start at three million. But times being as they are - and the situation being what it is, I'll let him go for two for you, Gospozha."

"One and a half."

"Two."

"One and sixty, then."

"Hmm..."

"Very well. One and seventy."

"I'll accept that."

They are _haggling_ over me, Eduard thought. But then again, as he caught Matthieu's wide smile as he redressed - which didn't entirely crinkle the sides of his eyes - and as Francis told the Gospozha it was a pleasure like always to do business with her, he reflected that he was supposed to think this sort of thing was natural, because he was after all not quite a human being, but an object. A living object, yes, but still an object.

And you wouldn't care what a horse felt. So why a bondservant?


	9. 9 - Canada

_(canada)_

Up until the point where the Councillor walked through the Emporium door, completely unexpectedly, his day was shaping up alright. Not amazingly, but not terribly.

Matthieu had woken up feeling better rested than he had in awhile, to a bright beautiful day on Hallar. Eduard was still in bed. Francis' recent purchase of the nine adepts from Veshna - all between five and seven - had seen Eduard moving into Matthieu's room just over a year ago. They didn't have enough room for two beds, and Francis needed Eduard's old bed anyway for the adepts.

That was perfectly fine with both Eduard and Matthieu. They were very close, the only two left from their set of adepts so long ago. Together they'd seen everybody else in their group grow up and leave the nest, and then wave after wave of new adepts did the same. It felt almost like he thought parenting would, in a strange, sick way.

Eduard and Matthieu wished them all well. They weren't Francis' first group and they were not his last. But at twenty-seven, Matthieu and Eduard were nearing a premature end of their service if they didn't get sold soon.

Matthieu would never admit it aloud but he had secretly hoped they wouldn't be.

Eduard's purchase that day would be difficult to take. He was trying not to think about it too much. But the Bragins of Olyokin were exceedingly well off. Even if Eduard wasn't particularly well-liked he would be very well-cared for. And who knew. Maybe someday their paths would cross again.

It was unlikely. But Matthieu could dream, and dream he did. The world he created within his head was a much more pleasant one.

Then there was Bragina's bondswoman - Eva was the name Francis had given her, though she appeared to have forgotten it entirely and now responded only to _my dear_, or _my lovely_, or _my darling_. She'd forgotten Matthieu too until he reminded her - then of course she had leapt into his arms and embraced him like the sister he remembered.

Correction - like a shadow of the sister he remembered. It had been lovely to see her again, but she wasn't anybody he knew anymore. Only the exterior bore any resemblance to the girl he'd known.

Well, everybody changed in the end. Would Eduard would be like that too?

Francis seemed inexplicably relieved. Maybe Francis would be happy to see _him_ go, too, someday? That way, Francis could focus more strongly on the younger adepts... but Matthieu doubted it. Firstly, he would not likely be sold at this stage - he was old, too old to be viable really, even though like all of Francis' trainees he looked years younger - and he should, he took his tonic religiously.

And secondly he questioned whether Francis wanted him sold in the first place. There was always something about the man's actions, something that seemed telling, that implied Francis wanted to keep him around.

(He and Eduard had lain awake talking about it one night, and Eduard had said, running his fingers through Matthieu's hair, _I think you're Francis' favourite for sure_. Matthieu had denied it, but there were signs. Matthieu was called into Francis' office and bedroom far more often than Eduard was. Matthieu had the same hairstyle, was better dressed. Matthieu, come help me with this and that, Matthieu come clean the back room. Matthieu, would you like to learn to cook?

Of course Matthieu neglected to tell Eduard of the downfalls of being 'the favourite' - always the go-to for taking out any stress relief, always heaped with responsibility that you didn't sign up for, significant slip-ups by others are tolerated while any minor mistake you make is the _end of the world_ - but Eduard probably had his suspicions.)

So when there came the sound of the little bell on the front door jingling, Francis had told Matthieu he could go and fetch the weekly groceries, which is what Francis, and Matthieu by association, had been expecting.

Instead Matthieu had found a woman, a bit older than he was - though with tonics, you just couldn't tell people's ages anymore - with mouse-brown hair, pinned up neatly under a smart cap. She wore a white blouse, jacquard vest and floor length bustled skirt. Expensive clothing. She looked like a professional, not a delivery girl. And there was no crate of foodstuffs nearby, that was for sure. "Do you have an appointment with Francis of Hallar?" he asked.

He was very quiet; it took a moment for the woman to hear him. She narrowed her eyes. "Are you his secretary?"

"Um, no, I -" wasn't sure what to introduce himself as. If she were a client, Francis might want him to reply with "Francis' son" like he had acted as for Bragina and all the other clients. But most clients did not drop in on a shopkeeper unannounced - certainly none of Francis' did - and Bragina had been the only person pencilled in today. Who was this woman? If she were no client, and didn't want to buy, perhaps she would not want to be lied to by someone of his class. She would find that incredibly offensive.

"I'll just go get him for you," he said, in a hushed tone, and tore off before she could say anything.

When he told Francis there was a woman here for him, and gave a brief description, Francis' interest was piqued enough to descend from the office. Matthieu only knew the subtle signs of panic from years of living with the man - an expert businessman with an immaculate poker face - but they were all present the second Francis spotted the woman, and remained behind the Emporium front room curtains, Matthieu on his heels.

"Why don't I go check on Belle," Matthieu offered meekly in Frankish, trying to hide behind his master.

"An excellent idea. Return immediately once you have done so," Francis ordered tightly under his breath, also in Frankish. "Be sure to give her the Medication."

"But she didn't _do_ anything - ouch!" Francis whirled around and slapped him across the mouth. That wasn't something you usually did with your son, was it? It couldn't be. He didn't see many families come by the Emporium. But on the nicer days when Francis wanted him in his bed for a luxury of an afternoon nap, or the nights where Francis wanted someone to hold as he fell asleep, Matthieu always felt cared for, and almost - dare he say it - loved. He knew Francis would never truly love him - you don't love possessions - but maybe it was a sort of strange, sick parenting method of his own?

At any rate, Matthieu retreated into subservient bondsman mode, since evidently that was what Francis wanted today, nodded stiffly once and disappeared, leaving Francis to deal with the woman.

Francis did not often take on those who had been mistreated before, and this was very obviously the situation with Belle. He didn't share his reasoning with Matthieu or Eduard for having taken her on, nor did he share with them what it was that had befallen Belle - Francis had taken to calling her that, after the first night. (Matthieu didn't think there was anything beautiful about the way she had screamed and cried herself to sleep.) Antonio of Marigon had been the one who had had her before Francis, and before him, it was a slew of other traders until Avo Romae. So far, the stick hadn't worked, so Francis was trying the carrot.

Did the carrot mean a shock collar? wondered Matthieu. Because that was "the Medication".

In her three months with Francis, Belle hardly ever spoke to Matthieu, though he always tried talking to her. He knew she _could_ talk - he heard her voice when she spoke to Francis - but she didn't appear to recognise Matthieu at all. She talked to Eduard a bit, and Francis the most, but hardly ever Matthieu, like he didn't exist.

That didn't mean he didn't try. "How are you doing?" he asked, when he stood at the threshold of her door. Belle remained on the bed, turned away. She didn't reply.

"Are you hungry? I notice you haven't eaten your lunch," he told her. "I can get you some more food, if you'd like something else?" Silence. "You've got to eat sometime," he pleaded, but she ignored that too.

"Listen, I know you'd prefer it if Eduard were here. But, um. He was sold today, so... it's gonna have to be me from now on," Matthieu said. Belle said, as usual, nothing at all. Well, he supposed this couldn't get any worse, he might as well do it now. He slipped inside the room, quietly, gliding over the spots in the floor that he knew creaked, and before she could do anything snapped the bracelet on her ankle. He leaned over to take a look at her face, make sure she wasn't too upset -

Oh. She was asleep. Well. That explained _that_.

When he returned to the Emporium front room he lingered around the curtain in case Francis wanted him called in. He and the woman sat on opposite sides of the tiny writing desk in the corner left of the front doors; the woman was busy writing something in her notebook but Francis noticed him immediately, with a sharp "_Ici!_" that flooded his veins with authority.

"He's all yours," Francis said to the woman. To Matthieu, he said - in Frankish - "This is the Councillor Héderváry. She has some questions for you, so please, treat the matter with the _proper levity_." Which usually meant for the love of god and all that is holy, _don't lie_.

Then Francis got up and breezed out of the room, leaving Matthieu alone with the woman.

"Good afternoon," she said icily, "won't you please have a seat." He did. "State your name for the record."

"Matthieu, madame." Council shouldn't care if he had a name or not, it wasn't illegal to give a bondsperson one. Just weird. But Francis was weird.

"And how long have you lived with Francis Soderne of Hallar?" she asked.

"A little over twenty years now, madame."

"You are how old?"

"Twenty-seven this July, madame."

"Then you have not lived with him your entire life?"

"No, madame."

She was silent. "Where were you born?"

"Veshna, madame," he said.

"I'm guessing you were sold?"

"That is correct. Uh, madame."

And Councillor Héderváry sort of looked upwards, to the heavens, as though they were constantly testing her patience and if they would stop that behaviour, it would be fantastic. "So you're saying you're a bondsman."

"...Yes?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?" she snapped.

"Telling you?" he said, cringing a little, in his very best 'please don't hurt me' voice. "Um, madame?"

It never worked on Francis so he didn't know why it would work on her. "You were bought by him twenty years ago. You have been in his legal servitude ever since?"

"Yes, madame."

"Please understand what it is I mean by _servitude_, bondsman. I do not mean you were purchased for training purposes and a later re-sell at higher value, having completed your training. What I mean by 'bought by him' is that you were bought to be his bondsman. At the age of - what would you have been, seven?"

"Yes, madame," he corrected her.

"Then please clarify. Were you purchased as a bondsman or were you purchased for training as a future bondsman?"

"For training, madame."

"Which means you have currently not been purchased as a bondsman."

"No, madame," he said, then realising that it might sound ambiguous, "not yet purchased."

She closed her notebook with a slam and capped her pen. "Francis!" she hollered, and Francis descended the staircase in ungainly thumps. "How much do you want for him?"

"For - whom, madame?"

"For Matthieu the bondsman," she said evenly, and Francis went bright red.

"Matthieu is not for sale," he insisted. Since when? Matthieu thought. Every now and again when Francis got really mad, he certainly threatened to sell him. It had the nasty habit of causing Matthieu to break down in tears and was very effective in cutting off any delinquincy.

"Matthieu is a prospective bondsman," the Councillor retorted, "and you told me he was your son -"

Francis threw up his arms in defence, protesting, "_I_ never said anything of the sort, _you_ made the inferences, madame -"

"It was an outright implication, Soderne, and I have this on record you know -"

"And I will remind you that the Council requires a warrant to search my books thank you ever so kindly -"

At the same time as an annoying beep signal in Councillor Héderváry's pocket went off - that sounded like an Eavesdropper - there came a horrible screeching wail from the back wing where Belle's room was. Something must have triggered the Medication around her ankle and she was certainly awake now. "Oh, for the love of -" Francis groaned.

"I can go if you want -" he offered but Francis' eyes were livid when they turned on him.

"No, here, you will stay right here!" Francis hissed in Frankish, with such vehemence that it made his knees grow weak with the impulse to fall to them in apology and deference. Francis hadn't looked at him like that since he was twelve.

"Madame," he said to Councillor Héderváry, "you must permit me to attend to my charge, as you can hear she is in great pain and you must leave the store at once."

"Not so fast. Ordinarily, I would present you with two choices, Francis of Hallar," said the Councillor, fiddling with her Eavesdropper to make it shut up. "Buy your bondsperson to keep as your own, or sell him as you wish. The latter requires you to pay the newly required annual tax amount as per subsubsection 39.2.4 of the Criminal Code, while the former requires you to pay that, and the required sales taxes. However," she continued, and Belle's cries grew fainter, which didn't really mean anything good, Matthieu was familiar with the shock collar himself - "if my instincts are correct, this is not the only such case you have."

"That is where you are incorrect, Madame," sneered Francis, which technically was true since Eduard had just been sold, so officially, Matthieu was the only such case left -

"I am certain I could ascertain that myself with a warrant. Would you like me to procure one, Francis?" the Councillor said smoothly. And Francis paled and shook his head.

Belle let out a long, low moan. What the hell kind of setting did Francis put that thing on, anyway? And what did the girl do to deserve this? "Councillor," Francis urged, "please leave the store immediately, my charge is in great distress."

"I'm not fooled. You've pulled that trick before, I seem to recall Jensen Mawkris of Hallar having the same complaint during his last three visits."

"Fine, fine, I'll buy him myself, just let me go."

"Ah, but that's the problem, see, you can't, and that's illegal. Now let me summarise. Not only have you been withholding goods from the trade - odd as the goods are -" and Matthieu wasn't fond of the critical and unimpressed sweep of her eyes on his body - "but you now also owe the Council probably an absurd amount of money, a figure that just might make _you_ flinch. In addition to enough paperwork to keep me working late nights for the next year, so thank you. Thank you so much. And most of all it's bad for the economy, which is why we have laws against it!"

"Bad for the economy, pah! You just want to make an example of me!" Francis blurted. "You only want to discourage those traders who act like the people they haven't sold are members of their personal harem!"

"Is that not exactly what you've done, Francis?"

"I- I will not have you slander me in my own store like this. You will remove yourself from the premises immediately, Councillor."

Belle screamed again, high-pitched and hoarse-throated. Probably because she'd been doing it for the past two minutes now, and why wouldn't Francis let him go attend to her? "Tell you what. I'll make you a deal. You can't simply sell the boy to yourself and buy him back, nor can you sell him to a friend and buy him back instantly. Those are both illegal under subsubsection 39.1.12.

"But I'll be lenient. Why don't you sell the boy at auction at the Decennial, end of this month? I'll assume he'll fetch a better price there. This way, the Council will get a higher sales tax cut, plus your auction fee, plus the per-head auction bondsperson entry fee. In exchange, I'll ignore this transgression and the others I'm certain I can prove easily with nothing more than a quick look in your accounts."

"How is this in any way fair to me? I don't see where you're giving anything up!"

"Did I say it was a _compromise?_" sneered the Councillor. "_You're_ the one who's been breaking the law." As she turned on her heel to walk out the door, she added, "I'll expect you to forward your files for your prospective auction entries' into my mailbox by tomorrow noon. I shall particularly look forward to inspecting the file of this ... this ..."

"Matthieu," Francis said icily. "His name is Matthieu."

"Name it whatever you want once it's yours," she sneered again, and slammed the door shut on the way out.

"God _damn it all to hell,_" Francis screeched, somehow louder than Belle's cries, if it were possible, "that bitch! That terrible bitch!"

"F-Fr-ancis, u-um, please, Belle -"

"And _YOU!_" he rounded on Matthieu, though he did retrieve something from his pocket - some kind of black rectangular device with a single red-tipped lever. He flipped the lever and Belle's cries softened immediately. Some kind of remote? He'd asked Matthieu to fasten it to her the moment the Councillor had walked through the door. Some kind of alarm to get the Councillor to piss off?

He trusted Francis, he really did, but was it really necessary to have Belle be subjected to two sustained minutes of intermittent shocks varying in intensity which she didn't deserve, solely to get a nuisance of a Councillor to leave the storefront? The strongest shock was incredibly mild, and Belle might've been exaggerating the pain - she liked disturbing the peace for any reason - but mild as the strongest might be, Matthieu had been the victim of them more than once. The worst part of the collar wasn't the physical pain, it was the humiliation, it was feeling like a bad dog who barked too often.

Which was, incidentally, precisely how he felt now.

"Francis, really, I'm, I'm sorry, I-I didn't know, I thought -"

"Silence," Francis said, eerily calm, and slapped him across the mouth again. It didn't hurt as much some other things Francis had done to him, not even as much as the shock collar - besides, with all his training he could take quite a bit of pain - but the jerky, sudden movement and the heaping, heavy shame felt orders of magnitude more terrible than the roughest training Francis had ever put him through, easily. Breathing hard, he felt his eyes well up with tears and begged them silently not to spill over.

Francis had turned his back to him anyway. "Not once in fifteen years have I dishonoured her in any way," he said to himself, angrily, "even with those telegrams from those Kilnus people asking for information on her - fifteen long years and she rats me out to Héderváry."

What? "Who?" he asked, as unobtrusively as he could while still being audible, before he remembered Francis had told him to be quiet.

But Francis appeared to have calmed down a bit, enough to tolerate his speaking. "Yekaterina Bragina, naturally! Moments after she leaves the Council walks through my doors? And that comment she made of sampling the wares? Why, I suppose she must think me a complete fool."

"T-that, that's not possible," he pleaded. "It can't be."

"Well who else, then?"

"I don't know! Maybe, m-maybe just a random check, I don't know. But it _couldn't_ have been her, eh, she just left the premises, she wouldn't have had time to get to the Council -" not that he knew exactly where it was, the last time he'd been outside he was twelve, and for all he knew they had an office right across the street - "and she spent almost two million dollars with you! Two million on someone you, you didn't even want."

"It doesn't matter anyway," Francis said angrily, more to himself than to Matthieu, or so he thought, and as he complained he began walking in the direction of his office, up the staircase behind the curtains. "It doesn't matter, for now I shall have to sell you no matter what! What ridiculousness, what stupidity, and - and these laws, I can't imagine what moron thought them up - thinks it's good for the economy -"

But Matthieu had stopped listening. _I shall have to sell you_. He would be sold. His heart pounded in his chest, filling his veins with dread - sold, he thought. Sold? After all this time? He - would he know what to do? And what would Francis do without him?

"Matthieu," Francis' voice said angrily, from the hallway, "I asked you if you were coming or not. But it was not a request." He snapped his fingers, and everything went for a split second bright white as Matthieu's body responded to the sound. What, this, now? he thought, almost contemptuously, how could Francis think of sex at a time like this? "I will require some stress relief, then I can think more clearly," Francis told him, explaining the answer to the question he didn't ask.

Moments, on the way up the stairs to the bedroom, he came to the same conclusion - it was a good idea after all. (Perhaps his body, conditioned to respond, was making that decision for him and his mind was simply following-through.) They would get the hot air cleared between them first before deciding what to do.

By the time he got to the top of the stairs all he could think of was Francis, and the thought drove him headlong into his master's bedroom, despite how livid Francis was, how painful Francis might make this, how disappointed Francis was in him. He needed him anyway.

Francis flung the curtains that separated his office from his bedroom so hard he nearly knocked them off the rod when he entered - no small feat for heavy velvet. Matthieu hadn't seen him so angry in perhaps over a year, that time there had been a particularly bad day in the shop, all those nasty things the other marketgoers were saying about Francis Soderne of Hallar, and then Matthieu'd gone and made the day ten times worse by burning the chicken for that night's dinner.

It was like this then: his clothing being nearly torn off, with such force it wrenched his elbow when Francis tugged at the sleeve; his boots pulled off before being unzipped - almost sprained his ankle; the knot in the drawstring on his pants loosened only enough to yank the material down past his hips. Until Matthieu was nude except for the belts they were all given, his containing a fine-grade rose-scented lubricant (Francis' favourite, naturally) and condoms (which Francis always ignored).

The lubricant was the only thing that would make this not hurt more than it had to, because it did have to hurt, Matthieu screwed up again, and this was his fault, really. He was the one who got himself into this, he ought to have a hand in helping to pick up the pieces. Francis gave him a minute to prepare himself - hardly enough time to prepare at all - while he hastily removed his own boots and trousers.

He kept the long-sleeved shirt and the vest, although he unbuttoned that. Matthieu gulped and tried for a third finger; Francis not being naked meant seriously angry.

Sure enough when Francis joined him on the mattress he was pushed backwards, scooting up the bed, and into the headboard, the border detail digging painfully into the blades of his shoulders. Francis pushed his legs up, bent them, until Matthieu found himself crumpled up and quite well sandwiched between angry, upset Francis and the firm wood of the headboard; both sides equally unyielding.

Francis entered him swiftly and did not give him any time to adjust, and oh, it hurt, it hurt like bliss, because how many times had Francis done this to him, not as angrily, but just as strong, just as hard? "For your - hah, own good," Francis hissed, into his mussed hair, "not that, ungh, not that you appreciate it, insolent brat -"

"Yes," Matthieu replied, "yes, yes -" (Enough times to teach him that it was pleasurable, that he needed it, that he wanted it. That was certain.) "oh, yes -"

"- I feel I ought to strap you sometimes, teach you. Teach you lessons." Francis grasped his knee with one hand, his fingers underneath in the crook, digging into the soft skin behind Matthieu's knee with his nails. He steadied himself on the headboard with the other, and used both to pull himself closer to Matthieu. Matthieu's whole life was lessons, just one right after the other, and he never got them right, it was just a whole string of lessons he always failed, twenty years of failure, twenty years a let-down, never sold, this is the least I could do for you is cook your meals, balance your books, help out any way I can because _nobody will take me but you_, Francis - oh god, Francis, I'm sorry I'm sorry, oh _please_, I'm so sorry -

When he returned to himself, his body sated, his mind a little sluggish, his heart still feeling as though it had been thrown around and played dodgeball with, Francis was pounding into him relentlessly. "Francis," he whispered, quietly, panting.

And Francis answered, with, "I can't lose you, I _can't lose you_," his eyes clenched shut, his face pained.

Stupid Matthieu. This time he did not bother to stop the tears from falling, because really, he'd ruined everything. He would be sold, he would be shipped off, and he would never see Francis again and what would become of his master?

Matthieu laid back and let Francis climax - watching with desolation his beautiful face contort and twist, he should take pride in this but there was just sick despair - and slip out of him, resting his front on Matthieu's shoulder, nestling in his neck, before he said, "Francis, I'm sorry. I really, I'm so sorry, for everything."

"It's alright, mon chou," Francis murmured, much more calmly, his former frenzy nearly completely abated. "I must admit, now that I think on it, from before, I -" perhaps was a bit hasty for the slap to the face? "I forget that you do not have the knowledge gained through schooling and universities. I give you too much credit sometimes." Oh. _Oh_. "To be simple as you are, it is natural for someone like you in your position."

He didn't think it was possible for his heart to plummet any further but there it was, almost in the pit of his belly.

"But as to the auction... hmm. I shall have to think about it. But I will think of something," Francis assured him, "you will have to be sold, yes, but ... perhaps I can have another purchase you, one whom I know, and sell you back to me. We must ensure you are not_too_ presentable at the auction, so that nobody else will bid and mine will be the lowest."

And somehow that felt like another slap in the face.

Francis must have misinterpreted his disappointment, disappointment that he should have kept his facial muscles from registering (but Eduard was always the one who was like marble, impenetrable and steadfast). "Not that I believe anybody else will buy you! Do not worry, mon beau. You are completely uninteresting to everybody except for me."

Oh.

What could he say to _that?_

"My love. My little love. Don't fret. I will speak to Antonio. Perhaps he will aid me in your purchasing."

"I-isn't that illegal?" he asked timidly.

Francis thought a moment, "The Councillor will find herself very busy suddenly," Francis said cryptically, "with running most of the auction on her own. I do not think she will pay someone as invisible as you much attention."

"R-right," Matthieu whispered in reply.

"We should go now and take care of Belle, but trust me. This will work out perfectly fine, trust in your master. Do you trust me, Matthieu?"

And like the well-trained dog he was, at the words 'trust me' the feeling of gloom about him abated a little, like light peeking through the clouds. "Yes, Francis, I do."


	10. 10 - Prussia

_(prussia)_

Alfred was back not long after, and - hoo, boy! - from the sounds of it, Kirkland was _some pissed_, alright! Last time Kirkland was that mad, it was Unsinkable's doing. He was impressed. And maybe a little jealous.

"What kinda magic did you _do_ to him?" he asked, his eyes and smile wide, through the bars that separated their cells.

Alfred rubbed his wrist petulantly. "Jerk hurt my damn wrist. Oh, I dunno," he shrugged, "one minute we were talking perfectly fine and the next he got all up in my face about things."

"He didn't - he didn't, like, _do_ anything, did he?" He didn't think Kirkland had had time for any funny business, it was a short meeting... and Kirkland had never, ever seemed like the type, not in the five years he'd known the man, but maybe he didn't know the Captain after all. Alfred was gorgeous alright, maybe the Captain just couldn't resist.

"Do something? Like what?" And the tone, oh man, that guileless tone. It'd been awhile since he heard something that innocent! That was priceless. And yet also really terrifying.

He breathed a sigh of relief; no, if Alfred was still that naive there was no way Kirkland touched him. That made him feel better about things. Of the pirates out there, Kirkland was one of the more moral. Which wasn't saying much. But it was nice to know his own judgment of character hadn't become so impaired. It was only a short stop after that to fuckin' Stockholm City and actually sympathising with people like Romae or some shit.

"Never mind, forget I said anything," he said. "So tell me what happened."

"Well," Alfred replied, "he sat me down at a table, told me I got taken by mistake, and then told me he wasn't gonna let me go home, that they were gonna sell me anyway. Apparently I'm really valuable or something."

"Look. You got Kirkland almost as angry as I get him on a regular basis. Pretty good work, approaching the awesome me like that, but so far I ain't heard anything that'd get him so riled. So what else didja do?"

Alfred looked a little ashamed. "I asked him if maybe we could make our own deal. He wouldn't sell me to the traders and instead ... he could just, y'know, keep me and I'd like cook and clean and stuff."

Cook. And clean. _And stuff_. "Uh. _Do_ you know what you were taken for? I mean I know I was vague but seriously, do you?"

"_Yes_, I fuckin' know, alright? I fucking know what bondservants are for. Mayor of Lawton's got one. Man, you and Kirkland, acting like I'm a complete idiot here."

"Well you kinda are! Scheisse, you have no idea - you don't even know what kind of a man Kirkland is!" Kirkland mentioned something about a meeting with Avo Romae - Unsinkable's faaavourite trader, yippee - so he wasn't outside listening in or anything to Unsinkable destroying his character. But no matter if he was, he wouldn't give a fuck, let Kirkland hear, let him get angry. Unsinkable would be the one who got his goat for real (like it should be!). "And you went and offered him your body for free _forever?_"

"You've talked to him, you know what he's like, he's a decent kinda guy -"

"No, he ain't," he insisted to Alfred, "he, he really isn't."

"- well he's probably nicer than the others," Alfred mumbled, and he had to hand it to the kid, he was correct on that. Staying with Kirkland might be one of the nicest scenarios. "Okay, so it wasn't exactly a brilliant plan."

"Got that fuckin' right."

"But what else was I supposed to do?"

"Did he accept your offer?" Alfred was starting to sound pretty convinced about Kirkland. "Shit, kid. Did he accept?"

"'Course not," Alfred said. "He can't stop thinking about how much money I'm gonna make him. Which ... that, that means I go to the traders, doesn't it?" And Alfred began to blink furiously and tremble.

Well... In theory, yes. That was exactly what it meant. But if anyone could figure out how to get this stupid kid back home - and he should be nicer to him, it wasn't Alfred's fault he was here - it would be himself. Not for nothing did they call him Unsinkable - and he thought it was a damn cute name too! Much better than cumbucket or painslut - he set the standard on not being fit to sell. Not darling Avo Romae, not Antonio of Marigon, not even the renowned Francis of Bast. Or Hallar. Wherever the fuck the sleazeball lived now anyway. If the top three couldn't do it, then the awesome him could not be fuckin' tamed.

That didn't mean they didn't all try their hardest.

Anyway. If he could manage to avoid getting his ass sold for five long years and keep his sanity (he was pretty sure it was still mostly there) then he could figure out how to get this kid home. The least he could do was try.

"Listen, kid," he said, through the bars. "Lemme think of something, okay? You're really lucky I'm here. Somehow, Kirkland's got sick of staring at my face all the time - poor Captain don't know beauty when he sees it! But he's talking to me when he gets back from Romae's. Maybe I can swing something, okay? Something to get you back home."

Maybe he could, like, offer himself to someone finally and then figure out some way to tear off. Kirkland would get cash for him - a decent bit, he could play nice and docile bondsperson for an afternoon while buyers inspected his ass. And he'd never see Avo Romae again. Yeah, he'd get himself raped once or twice before he managed to clear away from whatever dummkopf bought him. But what made _that_ any different from the past five years?

Alfred sniffled. "You'd - you'd do that for me?"

"I can't promise anything," he said, and that was true enough, "besides that I'll try."

Alfred nodded. "Th-that's enough. Enough for me. Even if you just try that'll be - well you know Kirkland better than I do. Gosh, I - thank you. Thank you so much."

"Don't mention it," he said. How in the world he'd manage to sway Kirkland out of The Money and remind the man about the morals that were buried deep, deep within him, he had no clue. "Say, you suppose those keys of yours unlock my ankle chain here?"

The more they talked, the more he became convinced it was the only thing he could do. It was true that he didn't stick his neck out for many people. He'd done it once or twice when he was fresh-caught and it had gotten him into some serious trouble. That was largely what had begun him cultivating his 'screw you Jack, I got mine' kind of attitude.

But. It wasn't really right. What he remembered from Schlessen was using broken bottles to fend off the wild dogs and crows who wanted to tear off pieces of Old Fritz' dead body, the day the crazy hobo finally passed away. What this kid remembered from New Joplin wasn't five cars and a mansion, but it was a happy if small home with parents who loved him dearly and were probably worrying themselves sick.

It was pretty clear Unsinkable could handle himself. Alfred, on the other hand, might've shown balls with that stupid dealmaking nonsense, but ultimately had no clue what he was doing.

Something about the kid's vulnerability grabbed him and shook him; made him want to step up to the plate.

.:.

When Arthur Kirkland appeared on the other side of the door several hours later, he and Alfred were still chatting away about everything and nothing. Alfred told him about his favourite movie stars, his favourite comic books, told him tales about the villain being defeated and the hero saving the day and winning the hand of the beautiful lady. You know. Shit you learn when you're five.

Like most of Alfred's naivete, it was endearing while also being completely terrifying. This kid would not last a day. They'd break him so easy they'd enjoy every minute of his downfall and he'd be gone forever in, like, hours.

"Come on, you," Kirkland said, "up you - hold on, I thought you were chained at the ankle."

"Magic!" he proclaimed, wiggling his fingers in Kirkland's face. Kirkland batted them away and grabbed his wrist, dragging him out the door and down the hall to the usual interrogation room.

"None of your nonsense now," Kirkland said as he let him sit down at the old table. Still had tea splotches on it from that time last week that Kirkland thought he'd be nice and bring in some tea. Ever the clown, he'd mimicked Kirkland's every move and acted like the Queen of Banningham, very pinched and prim and formal. It had made Kirkland redden with anger which made him bug the good Captain about it, and it went along those lines until he'd simply poked the bear enough that, somehow, the whole thing had become hilarious. Kirkland's loud, liberated guffaw didn't match the man's usual temperment at all.

He supposed that's what Kirkland meant by _his nonsense_. Fair enough, he had a legitimate topic of his own to discuss.

"Before you say anything," he said, because Kirkland already had his mouth open, "I have a totally awesome deal for you that you really definitely wanna hear."

"I thought I said _none_ of your nonsense."

"It's not nonsense, I swear! Totally serious."

And then Kirkland gave one of those heavy sighs, and looked upwards as though there were some god constantly testing him and his patience and he was asking it _why, why must you put me through these things_. Naturally, he grinned back with the brighest, toothiest grin he could muster, because that sigh usually meant Kirkland was caving. It was getting easier and easier to make that man cave.

"I have a curious feeling like I'm going to regret this but you know what, sure. You go for it, because this will no doubt provide me my quota of one laugh a day which so far I very sorely need."

"Okay, so -" he began, already gesturing wildly with his hands - "here's the idea. You don't wanna sell the kid. _I_ don't want you to sell the kid. The kid _definitely_ does not want you to sell the kid. But you want money, and I get that. I totally get that. You also probably want to get me off your chest 'cause I've noticed something around here - I noticed I go from trader to trader to trader through you. It's basically the strangest cruise of the solar system ever. And you've been offering it to me for no charge besides the company of the awesome me! Which I gotta say, I appreciate. But that ain't _businesslike_.

"So why not kill two birds with one stone? You get rid of your problem - namely, yours truly - and finally drown the awesome myth that is Unsinkable. Sell me again to Avo Romae, he's real big on the taming of the shrew deal, we'll get you a nice price for it, I'll be good and kind and well-behaved and fuckin' _everything_, he'll sell me off to someone, no prob.

"But first, we gotta go back to the Nova sector and drop Alfred off at home 'cause fish is so far out of water it's stupid."

Kirkland's face was pale. And shocked, and more than a little horrified. He panicked a litle - shit, he's not buying it - "Listen Captain. I know you can get more money for Alfred, way more - you dress us both up nicelike and they'll pick baby blues and blond hair over, over someone like me anyday. But you - you just can't. You _made a mistake_ in the raid and you picked up someone you weren't supposed to.

"Now I know you. 'S been five years now, I know you. I know your patterns and I'm a victim of your patterns, you remember Schlessen like I do. Well you don't ever pick up people in nice areas. You know the type, three-floor apartment buildings, well-lit streets, parks where people walk their dogs, reliable streetcars? This is where that kid comes from. You know what kinda up-in-arms is gonna come after you for taking one of those? Council doesn't mind you taking pieces of shit like me, street vermin low-lives with no prospects - oh hell, I don't know, maybe they pay you for cleaning up the streets. Turn 'em into courtesans for the high-class, it's a win-win god-damn _modest fucking proposal_.

"So you may have the money on the pros to this but the cons include the endless shit you're gonna get from the New Joplin _bee-spah_ and another few more trips at least of dealing with me. And you just know I'm gonna make your life hell. Not that you'll need it with the guilty fucking conscience that I know you've got somewhere buried deep inside that wallet of yours."

Kirkland sighed again, much less heavily, and more sadly. "Wow," he said, "you've gone and proved me completely wrong, again. _This_ may actually be the saddest part of today."

"Yeah? So do the right thing, Captain. Send Alfred home."

"Of all the complete bollocks you retched up, that wasn't the worst of it," Kirkland replied with a strange, warning tone in his voice, the one he used when he wanted you to tread lightly. "For you to even suggest my selling you to Romae ..." the Captain faltered and fell silent.

He let Kirkland think about it in peace instead of clown around like usual. Finally Kirkland began.

"I've just been at Romae's, as you well know. Does the name of Frederick Plinton of Tenickson mean anything to you?" He shook his head; he'd never before heard the name. "Frederick Plinton is a man who owns quite the large estate on the Luna Halleri Secondary Colony. Suppose we ought to call him Frederick of Luna Halleri but you don't usually do that for moons. And he's only after setting up. Anyway I'm getting sidetracked...

"In his daily life he's the Deputy Manager of Security Affairs for Agriculture and Resources on Luna Halleri. His interests include playing the violin, collecting coins and buying bondspeople. He has bought three so far and continues to buy more."

_Three_. Wow, rich guy. "So ... what, this is the guy you're gonna sell Alfred to?"

"Absolutely not," Kirkland said, aghast. "No. Unthinkable. In fact the story went rather that - well, Romae wanted to try selling _you_ to him. The - look. The reason this man continues to buy more is because his interests may be completely banal but his pleasures are rather perverse. He's what we might call the limits of deviance. He, ah. He's into snuff."

He didn't get it. "The hell is that, some kinda drug?"

Kirkland shook his head. "Snuff is getting off on the act of murder. Killing someone. This is why he continues to buy more bondspeople. He hunts them, and kills them."

It very slowly dawned on him, and as it did his brain fogged with a vague sense of _what?_ "You -" his voice was now so, so quiet - "you want to kill me?" He couldn't, he _couldn't_.

"Apparently Romae will pay up to ten million for me to hand you over - I'm sure Plinton will pay him even more but that's the way business works for you. And if you run the numbers, ten mil is more money than I'll get for selling him - Alfred, was his name?"

Oh my god. He _could_.

"You, oh, you can't," he whispered, because somehow he was incapable of saying anything aloud, "oh god, Ki- Captain, _Arthur_, please. Please, you can't."

Kirkland was merely quiet. "It's a lot of money. And as you yourself say. It's within my interests as well to get rid of you. Isn't it?"

"I didn't mean _that_. Oh, Arthur. Please, please don't - don't do it, I'll do anything -"

And Kirkland's eyebrow quirked up just so. "Anything?" he asked.

Anything ... could mean _anything_. Tread these waters lightly indeed, Unsinkable. But on the other hand there was someone out there who wanted to kill him! His heart pounding, he said, "Yes. I'll do anything you want if you just _don't sell me to that one._"

"Here's the deal I want to make with you," Kirkland said, leaning in, and without thinking, he leaned in as well, until they were very close, inches apart, and he could see very clearly the bright green irises of Kirkland's eyes. He let them bore holes into his own. Frankly, it helped him steady himself, get his breath back from that minor heart attack he might've had. "I'm not the one that took the kid. Alfred. I didn't take him. I didn't order it, we weren't even supposed to be there. It's exactly as you say; we don't hit those areas of town and we were expected in downtown Grand Cove instead of the suburbs. The one that took him was Desmond, and Desmond paid very dearly for that mistake already. So now I'm down a crewmate.

"Avo Romae tells me he has already told Frederick of Tenickson that there's a potential candidate, which means Frederick is pushing hard for it, which means Avo Romae isn't likely to leave me alone. That doesn't bode well for you as a slave.

"So I propose we upgrade you from slave... to boatswain. Because nobody except me touches a member of my crew." And leaning in so close like that, he didn't miss the crazy smile that slowly graced Kirkland's face, the one that said this plan is magnificent on so many levels. "What do you say?"

His mouth ran away from him, like always. "You... you mean it?" He didn't want to give Kirkland the chance to reconsider an offer like that! Being a pirate meant a sort of steady income, though not always a legal one, and actual rights as a freeman. No more brig, no more trading, no more being beaten, no more rape -

No more rape. God_damn_.

"Of course I mean it," Kirkland said softly. "You've been here so long. You're practically an institution yourself. And ... and I couldn't do it. Not even for ten million. Not to you."

Those words, those words - they raised goosebumps on his arms with the way Kirkland said them, and before he knew it he'd grabbed the man's cheeks in both his hands in bright, euphoric _glee_ and planted one on him, directly on his lips, in between his murmurs of, "Thank you, thank you thank you, oh god, thank you."

"There's, there's just one thing," Kirkland spluttered, when he'd released him, and hah, what an awesome shade of eggplant the Captain - _his_ Captain! - was turning. "Well, two."

"What's that?"

"First, _never do that again_," and though he kind of resembled a strange piratey lobster right now, Kirkland looked more amused than anything else.

"Done," he replied enthusiastically, too relieved to showboat by saying something about how he'd now have to content himself with a kiss that bad.

"And second. I don't fully trust you yet. Before I can, you've got to prove your loyalty to me, and you did tell me you'd do anything. So I'll have to hold you to that."

"Anything," he said, nodding almost spastically. Anything was better than certain death. Hell, Kirkland could take him right here and now if he wanted to. (Which he mostly thought because he knew Kirkland would never, ever do that.)

"Here's my plan about how to solve a problem like Alfred." In his shock from dealing with the prospect of being murdered to becoming a freeman, he'd completely forgotten about the boy. It was lucky his Captain hadn't. "Avo Romae is just as interested in Alfred as he is in you for different reasons. For Alfred's case it's because Romae heard about the loss of Desmond the bosun and worked it out that the boy I must've killed him over must be incredibly beautiful. Which, I'll admit, he is.

"Now Romae thinks he can get a good amount of money for him, more than he usually gets for an untrained bondsman, which is why he's willing to buy him off me for more than I would usually ask. I think I've managed to convince him, however, that if he auctions the boy at the Decennial coming up, he'll get double, maybe triple. Perhaps upwards of ten million. Or at least he'll get a lot more."

"He probably will," he agreed. "Then, you're gonna sell him anyway?" After all that?

"Sell him ... and then buy him back," Kirkland said. "I know someone who can make the three million I'll make off Alfred's sale to Romae turn into thirty, which ought to be more than enough to buy him at Auction and pay for the fuel back to New Joplin. We'll have to keep Alfred notified of this so that he behaves properly. I'll sell him to Avo Romae tomorrow. But here's where you come in. In about a week they'll have the numbers ready for the auction - everything's all organised in advance. I need you to go into Avo Romae's place on Hallar - we're on our way there as we speak - and find out what number Alfred'll be in the auction."

"I can do that. No problem."

"The catch is, if you're seen, well. Avo Romae knows who you are, what you look like. Everybody does, with looks like yours. If you're seen, he won't bother using me as a go-between. He'll simply kidnap you to satisfy his client, which makes him even more money as he doesn't have to waste any, buying you off of me."

"But I'm your bosun now, you said nobody could touch me but you!"

Kirkland coughed. "But you don't get your papers until after we figure out what number Alfred will be in the auction, so that we can rig it, and buy him back. You savvy? This is how I'm going to find you're loyal to me. Do this for me, and I'll give you your freedom. Have we got a deal?" he asked, holding his hand out.

And really, how could he refuse? A chance to help Alfred, and a new life.

.:.

Thank you for reading! I'll be back with more later this week :)


	11. 11 - Denmark

_(denmark)_

Six was a good, round number. It had some kinda heft to it. Five was a little mystical, a little bit something-not-quite-right. Danmark wasn't all that superstitious but there was just something about five that set him off.

He felt more whole with a sixth.

But they didn't have six beds yet. In fact, they still only had four, Norge usually slept in the parked airship, and when that wasn't around, the stealthship. So when twilight drew to a close in Kroksvellir base, and everybody headed back to each own tiny room (or stealthship) Danmark offered the new guy - who hadn't yet picked a name, so in Danmark's head, he was gonna be New Guy - his own bed. Sure, it wasn't all that clean, it'd been awhile since he'd had a chance to get the sheets to a laundromat - he sometimes ate bread and a little cheese for snack before sleeping, but he brushed the crumbs off. Good as new.

"Are you sure?" New Guy said, and Danmark brushed that off too.

"Sure I'm sure! We oughta be hospitable here and you're one of us now. _And_ you're probably dead tired, after the hoops you jumped through yesterday with Sverige. You basically toured Nunat in a week! Even for our tiny little rock, that's tough."

He was careful not to mention the other reasons the man might be tired.

New Guy offered a wan half-smile of his own, thanked him, and went to bed, so Danmark crashed on the floor outside with a few pillows and an old comforter, and it wasn't too bad, though there was a draft near where he lay, seeping in from the rear side door where it was buried under snow, and he was always up earlier than everybody else anyway.

In fact he was surprised when the next morning, New Guy seemed to be worse for wear than _he_ was. Must've been more tired than he thought.

He didn't mind at all, New Guy could have his bed as long as he needed it. New Guy was real nice, very friendly and moreover, unlike anybody they'd rescued to date, he actually had a significant amount of fight still in him, you could just see it in his eyes. It was downright inspiring ... not that he could figure out a way to tactfully say _hey, you may have spent the past three years being tortured but the fact that you're still ready to kick ass and take names is so goddamn awesome I kind of want your autograph_.

There was a little bit of cleanup work to do from the recent job, and New Guy was helpful with that. Norge and Sverige took the stealthship back to Arga in order to recover the airship, and Suomi and Danmark helped New Guy fill out all the paperwork. Once he picked a name, Norge would file it with the Olyokin government in the next few days and lickety split, just like that, New Guy'd have his life back.

Danmark got New Guy to help him with location work, and the two of them spent most of what little natural light they got in the afternoon poring over maps of Nunat. Mostly this was to interest New Guy, who'd never before been to the planet - but it also served a purpose in plotting out decent locations for new bases and safehouses. The Nunat Bonds Service Protection Agency were a pretty slow bunch but the Halleri counterpart were hopping mad at them, and Nunat signed an extradition treaty with Hallar a couple of years back so there was nothing stopping the old _bee-spah_ from coming to find them.

Ísland - the quiet one - took New Guy when he went to Kroksvellir that evening to buy groceries and do a load of laundry. Danmark would've liked to go with. He'd been to Kroksvellir all of once through the past year they'd been stationed here. It was a small village where his voice echoed easily, and people had a magnificent tendency to remember him, even when he was trying his best to be quiet.

Basically, Danmark was the perfect distraction and bait weapon, but a terrible spy otherwise. There wasn't much that could be done about it, and he had an important role to do so it wasn't like he was useless here.

He still felt a little nervous letting New Guy out of his sight, to be honest, but he trusted Ísland. None of them got very far in an endeavour like this without trust.

They weren't back until ten, by which time Norge was in the airship and Sverige and Suomi were in their respective rooms. (He tried to fall asleep for about an hour himself before realising he was just tossing and turning, anxious that New Guy would return okay.) Before retiring to his own bunk, Ísland wordlessly took a quick nightcap of the braendevin that Danmark was slowly nursing in his chair where he read by oil lamp, wrapped up in a quilt. Electricity was a precious, precious commodity on Nunat, who had just gotten it ten years earlier (of course, places like Tenickson and Luna Halleri had had it for ages). They didn't want to give away location by wire, or by hearth, so oil lamps and blankets upon blankets it was.

"Rich meal for dinner?" Danmark asked, and New Guy nodded.

"I haven't seen that much food in awhile," he admitted. "There was smoked lamb and fish, and some kinda bird he called lundar, plus bread and jam, and yogurt, and cheese - and _then_ we had dessert!"

"See? I told you before long we'd have you ten pounds heavier. No more skin and bones for you! Do you want some?" he asked, referring to the braendevin. "It's not flavoured."

"I'm alright," he said, "I think I might just turn in."

"Oh. Well, okay. I'm gonna read for a bit, but, g'night." When New Guy sort of fidgeted awkwardly it took him a bit to figure out why. "Oh, uh, you can - you can take the bed again. Long as you need, okay? We'll get another bed soon, Norge can bring one back from Olyokin or something so... you know. Don't worry about it."

"That ... wasn't what I was going to ask," New Guy said, almost meekly, "I kind of. Um. I have pretty bad nightmares, for awhile now. It's not so bad if there's someone else right there, usually 2304 was willing, and I got used to it, I guess. And. The bed's big enough, and I feel like I can trust all of you guys, maybe that's crazy? But it's kinda cold out here anyway, so, uh. If - would you mind?"

Oh. "Yeah, I - sure. Sure," he replied quickly, caught off-guard and feeling awkward. He dog-eared the page and picked up the oil-lamp.

"You don't - you don't have to right away, I just -"

"It's okay," Danmark said, getting to his feet, "the book's just something to do. Not that important. Really."

They lay there in the dark for about half an hour, side by side, in a bed that actually _wasn't_ all that big, not for two tall guys like them. It was nice, feeling someone next to him. He hoped he was as comforting to New Guy as the New Guy was to him. But he wasn't that tired yet.

"You're not asleep?" he asked, and he heard and felt the rustle of New Guy shaking his head. So Danmark propped himself up on his side, to look at New Guy, even if he couldn't make out his face. "Wanna talk?"

"...About what?" New Guy replied uncertainly.

Not _that_, never that. "What's the Dordlands like? That's New Sainte-Dolitte, right?" And he heard and felt the rustle of New Guy nodding.

"It's nice," he replied, slowly, quietly, "the Dordlands. The rest of Nieuw Sint-Dolitte I can't say much about, I've never been."

"Tell me about it," Danmark prompted. "If, if you want to, that is."

"No, I don't mind. Well. It's a, uh, a set of states, that you just sorta lump together under the umbrella of Dordlands. Some of them were settled a long, long time ago, like centuries, when the Franks were still around before they left for Bast and Schlessen. Um. Those parts are pretty, the old parts, the ones with canals, and castles and really old buildings. The kind they keep in good condition. It's kinda hard, you know, with the atmosphere on Nieuw Sint-Dolitte, so there's a lot of money constantly spent on reconditioning. We. We didn't grow up in those parts, obviously, but every school trip took us there in history class."

"Who's we?"

"Ah, my sister," New Guy said, "older. She's the one who took all care of me, made me go to school though the guys who lived next door never did, and they always seemed to have a lot more fun than I did with my math homework! We, uh. We lived in the projects just outside the older buildings from the industrialisation period of Nieuw Sint-Dolitte, and those were just outside the city centres. Kinda like giant target signs.

"On the fringes it got a lot less nice. We had an apartment on the twelfth floor, but the elevators never worked. Which was fine, the rare occasions they did they smelled like piss anyway. We didn't pay for the place. I didn't find out about that until I was like fifteen and finally put it together, but my parents - I never knew them, my father died before I was born and my mother not long after - anyway they were squatters. Years and years. That's why my sister was able to go to school too, otherwise - we could never have managed to afford even the small space we had.

"We both slept on a mattress on the floor. Shared a blanket in the colder months - it never gets cold like this but it's humid on Nieuw Sint-Dolitte, and a wet cold somehow gets you in the bone so much more than a dry cold does. We couldn't lock the door, so ... we never had much at home, a little food but what didn't get eaten by us got eaten by the mice. Both of us were almost never there, I had an after-school job at a sandwich shop that didn't mind when the ends of the loaves went missing. My sister had a job cleaning offices downtown. So home was really just a place to go to sleep."

"You were a Subscript family," Danmark said - the nicer term for _poor as dirt_.

"Yeah," New Guy said. "Me and her, that's - that's kinda what we were."

He wanted to ask whether his parents, like many Subscript families, had ever considered selling their children to the trade for money. You could get a lot of money for an infant - a couple hundred thousand. Children reared in bondservice seemed happier, more well adjusted. Danmark wasn't convinced; brainwashing can do cruel, terrifying things to you. But he shouldn't ask that, not when New Guy had nightmares... So instead he asked, "Does she look like you, your sister?"

"A little," New Guy replied, and there was a smile in his voice that hadn't been there before. "She's tall, like me, though not as tall. We're both of us skinny as sticks, both blonde, but her eyes are greener than mine. Her hair sorta - well the last time I saw her anyway, her hair fell to her jaw, slightly wavy. I don't know if they cut it for her like they did mine."

"They?"

"Yeah. They," New Guy murmured. "Good old Sis. She, um. She always looked after me. And when I didn't come home ... she went and played detective and figured out where I was. Somehow she got in contact with the pirates that took me and asked for me back. 'Cause you know, they weren't going to get much for me anyway - seventeen, and I looked it, already too old for the sickos, and I had bad acne then too, we could barely afford soap and I was no good at thieving it -"

"It's fine, you don't, you don't have to tell me the story," Danmark reassured him. New Guy was pretty easy to read. Whenever he got uncomfortable, he spoke in this rushed whisper, but about tangentially related things, hovering distantly around the point instead of getting to it.

But, "I'm okay," he said, and sighed. "Anyway, she came after me, to get me back. She brought money. And they took her, and me, and the money, and made off like - well, like pirates. It's what pirates do."

"Doesn't make it right."

"But I should've _known_."

"Why? Are you a pirate? You don't think like they do."

"It was pretty obvious, wasn't it? And all this time because of me she's been in servitude."

Danmark grinned, although New Guy wouldn't be able to see it in the pitch dark. "Then let's get her back."

"How? I don't know where she's gone. We got separated a month after we were taken off Nieuw Sint-Dolitte. She could be anywhere by now. She might not even be alive."

"We'll think of something. But why not let's try, huh?" There were plenty of people taken left and right, so many that they never needed to search hard to find someone who wanted freedom so badly they could taste it. They'd never tried finding a particular someone before. Then again, pirates didn't often take pairs of siblings, either - Danmark had never heard of it. It didn't do good things for morale amongst the slaves, which the traders wanted to keep as high as possible in order to make enough sales (whether the slaves were as happy once you brought them home, well that was simply not the traders' problem).

But if the group could take a thousand dollars and make it look like a million to the banks, and steal stealthships and airships from right under a dealership's nose, and buy people only to set them free and somehow reclaim the money 'spent', and consistently avoid the threat of the planetary BSPAs... they could find a lost girl in a solar system.

"I won't get my hopes up," New Guy admitted, "but. If you can do anything. I'd love it you could try," and trying at least, _that_ Danmark could promise him.

.:.

As always he got up earliest, and it was still dark. New Guy was curled up in a ball on his side, his hands squeezed tightly in fists, his arms drawn into his chest. But his expression seemed peaceful and unbothered - maybe he was just cold. So Danmark felt alright about leaving him to start the coffee, although he kept the door cracked open.

Norge came down from the airship next. "Going out today?" he asked him, and Norge nodded.

"I should be off shortly after sunrise. Anything we need on Olyokin?"

"A few specialty items. Coffee, tea, maybe some buckwheat honey, but we got groceries yesterday. Ísland took New Guy out to the village while you were gone."

"His name's Tim, now," came a voice from the left. Suomi stretched as he entered the living room. "He'll probably still let you call him New Guy though. We finished the paperwork yesterday, so Norge, if you don't mind stopping by the government tomorrow on your way back from Olyokin, be nice to file it."

"That's a pretty plain name," Danmark said. "If I could pick my own name I'd pick something sexy, like Magnus."

"Yeah, well I doubt he cares about people finding him _sexy_ ever again," Suomi snapped, and Danmark, duly shamed, shut his big trap already.

"Did'n mean anythin' by 't," and that mumble could only come from one of their group. Sverige took a seat across from Suomi. "Yer not too nice 'thout yer coffee in th' mornin'."

"Sorry," Suomi said, "just, you seem to have latched on to him a little. You should really be more careful."

"No, uh, I should watch what I say," Danmark admitted, though after years of being told things like this - mostly by Suomi - he wasn't likely to start now. "In any case, he said something last night that I thought was interesting. We could take on a new project."

Sverige seemed intrigued. "'N whussat?" he asked.

"He's got a sister - oh, hey, there's coffee on the stove -" Ísland grunted in reply, too early for him for real words - "and they took her too. Think maybe we can track her down?"

"They don't usually take pairs," Norge mused. "That's weird. Unique."

"Yeah. Went something like, they tried holding him for ransom and she turned up with the cash. I guess they weren't expecting her to actually turn up but when she did they just took the whole kit and caboodle. Split 'em up later."

"Who's this, Tim?" asked Ísland, and dammit, had _everybody_ known his name before Danmark?

"Uh, sorry, were you talking to me?" murmured a sleepy voice from Danmark's bunk. "I'm still kind of getting used to the name."

"Hey! I'll get you some coffee," Danmark said brightly, and leapt up from his seat.

"Do you _like_ coffee?" Suomi asked sarcastically, and New Guy - Tim - must've nodded because he accepted the mug with a tired but gracious smile, so Suomi could just piss off.

Danmark threw New Guy an apologetic look. "I didn't mean to tell them your story, but I thought. I mean Norge's going to Olyokin today so we could get some information."

"I have a contact, yes," Norge replied, "but she may not have any information. The more you can tell me, the better I can do," he prompted, and so New Guy told them the same stuff he told Danmark last night - what she looked like, who they were taken by and when, to which traders they were sold. He didn't remember the pirates - only a big ship and a lot of boxes in the cargo hold - but Norge said that wouldn't be a problem. Norge seemed positive about it, as did Sverige and Ísland said he'd see what he could do from his side of things.

Things were looking up until Sverige made some eggs, and a few sausages for them all, and the stove gave out halfway through. They drew straws for who was the lucky guy to go to Kroksvellir for more gas for the stove and he lost. But that wasn't so bad because when New Guy asked if he could come with, and Danmark said he'd be grateful for the help, New Guy gave this shining smile that seemed to evaporate all of the worry his handsome face had previously shown.

And dammit, if New Guy weren't so damaged, he'd be so beautiful ...

But things being as they were, he was, and Danmark had no right to even think of him like that, not after what had happened to him.

No right at all.


	12. 12 - Norway

_(norway)_

It was a different restaurant every time, for reasons that weren't made clear to him. But Norge didn't mind. He waited patiently at the table reserved for Lukas Bondevik. A different name every time, too. He knew why _that_ had to be. The Halleri Bonds Service Protection Agency had been keeping an eye out for their little group of five (now they were six, with the freed slave who called himself simply Tim), not because they freed slaves. Once you bought a slave - well, 'bondsperson' - Norge couldn't fathom calling them anything but people in the end, no matter how they viewed themselves - they were yours to do with as you pleased, and that included handing them their papers in legal freedom.

No, the Halleri BSPA cared about them because somehow, Norge and Sverige - the buyers - managed to recover the funds they'd paid for their purchases, and the traders made such a fuss when the money they made off of someone else's back mysteriously vanished. When they didn't do that, they managed instead to turn a mad profit at the banks. Either way, it smelled like fishy business.

Which, it was. But they needed money to do these things, to support themselves, to buy fuel vials for the airship and stealthship. It was a necessary evil.

Ísland was a very useful contact for most such necessary evils. Helping Norge and Sverige manage to recover funds that had been paid to traders for illegally caught slaves was one of them. Creating aliases was another, so tonight, Lukas Bondevik sat, waiting for his date, in the corner table of Golis' Restaurant that he'd reserved for 7 PM.

It was now 7:42.

Agnieszka was not that punctual, and this was probably the only constant in their relationship. He always brought a book.

"Sorry, my hair was taking like forever today," he heard from above. He looked up, grinned, and pursed his lips for a kiss, which Agnieszka, gigglingly, obliged. She wore a neat walking suit in deep red and trimmed in black lace at the sleeves and neckline, high-cut but fitted to her curves, with a single cameo pin at the throat. Her hair - blonde and shorter than the style of the times - did look very nice, she had done ringlets around the face today. But if you asked Norge, Agnieszka was always worth the wait. "You didn't order yet?"

"You're not that late," he told her as she took the seat in front of him. "How was your day?"

"Oh, not bad, but like really long. Olga has a function to go to tonight, some sort of charity ball, so I helped her and her handservant pick out something nice to wear, we did her makeup, you know the drill. By the time I got home I was running like a half hour behind schedule, but I totally needed the shower -"

"Agnieszka," he interrupted, covering her dainty hand with his, "I don't mind. I really don't."

She blushed and smiled. "It's so nice to see you - what is it tonight?"

"Lukas, please," he replied.

"Lukas it is. Well, a rose by any other name. I'm glad you were able to stop by Olyokin. Are you on your way out again?"

Nunat and Olyokin were on the outskirts of the system, Nunat's orbit nested within Olyokin's. Both cold - both far from the sun. This meant that when the planets were closest to each other, there was a good long while (longer than his lifespan, anyway) when the planets would stay close enough to make travel feasible for someone strapped for time. Far into the future, Nunat would race ahead, and then later still be at quadrature with Olyokin, then conjunction. With Nunat alone half a week away from the inner planets, Olyokin at conjunction would make travel between the two exceedingly difficult.

Not impossible - he could afford it, and what he couldn't afford Ísland merely _convinced_ the banks otherwise, but Norge couldn't simply jet off whenever he pleased. A week's journey for one night? Impractical. But Nunat and Olyokin so close - Sverige didn't mind a few more fuel vials used up, a day here and there spent off-world.

If they'd been born two hundred years before... It was surreal to think of her being so far away she was on the other side of the sun, to imagine them never having met.

"No," he replied, "we just got back from Hallar two days ago. Shouldn't be heading out for another week."

"Your usual?" He nodded. "Went well?"

"Oh, without a hitch," he replied.

"I worry about you," she admitted. "I always worry when one of you goes off and - well, you know."

"Do you ever hear much about it from the dinner table?" At the Rubetskis', he meant, although he was careful not to say it aloud.

She nodded. "When it gets publicised, we do. Yesterday night was like all about the Nova sector raids. It's been awhile since the Delivery was in the news so the media went with that instead."

"The Delivery?"

"The Great Delivery's the ship that did it. Well - that's what they're saying, anyway, there's no, like, actual proof yet, but that'll come up in a day or two. Between that and the Dordlands job they're totally not getting their clemency back."

"The Dordlands job?" he asked. A-_ha._

"The Dordlands was raided about nine years ago, then again about three years back. Kirkland's the one who did it, and though I don't know who, like, _ordered_ it, I have my theories. You probably have yours. Anyway, it was a fight to regain clemency from the Council for safe passage through Hallar airspace - they only got it about six months ago. Puts the Delivery in like a really bad place to be implicated with Nova."

"You're right," Norge agreed, "they probably won't be granted clemency again."

"Which means they're gonna get a little desperate. Like a lot desperate. Now you see why I totally worry about you and your jobs?"

But the conversation topic switched abruptly as the waiter came to take their orders. They talked of other, safer things throughout the duration of their evening.

.:.

Norge appreciated the time he spent with Agnieszka very greatly, but there was a mutual benefit to their relationship that went beyond enjoying good food and good company. Agnieszka required money, which he gave willingly. (It wasn't his to give, but it was untraceable; Ísland saw to that.) And often, Norge required information: aside from raids, the team's activities were the favourite topic at the Rubetski court. If the Halleri BSPA - or the Olyokin BSPA, for that matter - happened to be paying particular attention to their infamous team, knowing about it was half the battle. The stealthship was very useful for times like these.

There had been an extremely close call a year ago when they moved their base to Kroksvellir; before that it had been outside of Veriborg, Danmark. Of all their sources - and they had many - it had been Agnieszka's information which had given them a day to pack up shop. Agents Adnan and Karpusi were hot on the trail, but by the time they arrived all that was left at the Veriborg fort was a desk with balloons taped on it and a bright yellow sticky note which said entirely too cheerily, "Sorry we missed your call! Please call again!", courtesy of Danmark.

This probably did not endear them to the pair, who didn't like Nunat to begin with and had been assigned the case as punishment for having failed some other and ultimately much less important case back on Hallar. But Norge agreed with Danmark - privately, in his mind, where nobody could hear him support such things - _it was really kinda worth it_. The papers loved it. And so did Agnieszka.

Very much worth it.

(Perhaps he enjoyed his job as a wanted criminal a little too much.)

.:.

Dessert came, and over an indecent chocolate cake, she returned the conversation to slightly more dangerous topics. "I was wondering - mm, _god_, this is totally fantastic, are you sure you don't want to try any?" Norge shook his head, his throat dry. "I was thinking." She licked the fork clean, several times, laving the tines up and down with her little pink tongue. "Could I have the contact information of the friend who ... sets you all up with different personas?"

He should have stopped her there - he didn't have an Eavesdropper with him to check, they shouldn't be talking about these things here - but in his defence, he was a little distracted. "What do you need him for?" Ísland, like all of them, wouldn't do anything that contributed towards the slave trade.

She twirled a lock of golden hair playfully. "Nothing like bad or anything. Just - well, you know my friends. One of them needs a little assistance."

"We should talk about it later," he said, not realising how husky his voice had become until he spoke the words.

"Later?" she asked, grinning, and licked chocolate off her lips. She leaned forward, pressing her chest against her forearm where it rested on the table. "Tell me, what comes later?"

He swallowed. "I can get a room if you want. But I brought the airship this time," he said, "not the stealthship, so ... we can have space, and privacy."

She nibbled at the last morsel on the fork. "Ah, I like privacy," she mused. "We'll take the airship." No auds or vids.

Neither of them could trust many people, but they could trust each other.

.:.

There were a lot of things he knew about Agnieszka Janowska.

It had started at a Rubetski function when he spotted her from across the room. They had gotten along instantly. She was one of the few women or men he'd spoken to that event who hadn't mentioned money, not so much as a hint of the thought of it, not all night, and this was why he slipped her quite a bit.

He didn't know what she used it for. He didn't give a damn, only that he had her word it wasn't for slaving or contributing in any way to that trade. She wasn't nearly as opposed to it as he was - very few people were, in fact - and a few of her friends among the Rubetskis indeed owned bondspeople. But not Agnieszka, and she didn't particularly want one, she said, and as he found out later, she required the money for something completely different.

They had carried on a successful friendship that had along the way blossomed into something more, a lot more. She may have dinner with the high-classies on Olyokin regularly, but he knew probably the most about Agnieszka Janowska than the "friends" that she mentioned now and again.

He knew that Agnieszka Janowska wasn't her real name. He knew that she wasn't Vitim. He knew that she dyed her hair a much lighter shade of blonde in order to fit in.

He also knew that she wasn't actually a she.

But he didn't really give a damn about that either, because she - well, he. Whoever he was and whyever he required his cover, it didn't matter to Norge. He was kind, he was friendly, he was good in bed, he looked great in a corset - oh dear sweet heavens did he ever look brilliant in a corset - and he made Norge smile. And after some four years of meetings - not all of which included business on either of their ends, sometimes they just met up for a good old fashioned _date night_ - he knew the man at least liked him back decently enough. Perhaps it wasn't love. But Norge wasn't sure he could ever let all his defences down enough for that.

To Norge, he was someone who shone like a glimmer of light in the bleak. Norge thought, that's really enough for me.


	13. 13 - Greece

_(greece)_

"Holy mother of god, is she ever taking forever to get here," Adnan grumbled.

"Patience is a virtue," Karpusi reminded his partner, his eyes still closed.

"Easy for you to say. You ever been stood up by a chick?" But Adnan answered his own question with a derisive laugh. "Probably not, I bet you're the one who did the standing up by sleeping through all your dates."

"The sleeping didn't happen _during_ the dates, since you're apparently so interested," Karpusi snapped back.

"Fuck off and die in a fire."

"A fire _would_ be nice right now."

Both federal Bonds Service Protection Agents were shaking like mad in the carriage outside the restaurant - Goli's, in the affluent Osava courtyard of Staria - the old section of Skuratchky. Capital city of the Empire Union of Free Vityaz States, some three million people, and it still managed to be colder than hell!

This planet certainly was no Hallar, which featured temperatures ranging from balmy to arid, and most importantly _always_ on the positive side of the temperature scale. Agent Karpusi was significantly less than impressed.

The cold might have had something to do with why they were so irritable with each other, but Karpusi and Adnan both knew the real reason: some cruel twist of Fate was playing a horrid practical joke on them, because buddy cops they were not, and they had been assigned to this case over two years ago.

They weren't even cops, they were Federal Agents, which meant whatever uniform they had typically consisted of a black blazer, dress pants and a cotton shirt. At least the police force usually got some sort of shielding vest or armour to wear under their clothing. But Adnan had had to go take Karapoulos' bet on trying to bed that pretty Council girl, which Karpusi was already on, and both of them struck out when she figured it out and dumped champagne on their heads...

Long story short, they had made total asses of themselves, and then one-upped it all by making further asses out of each other. In retrospect, Karpusi was willing to concede they might've deserved this case as their punishment, if the case had ended when it should have, which was _a year ago_.

"Ugh, _finally_," Adnan said, as the Eavesdropper he held began to whirr and vibrate. It extended its two little limbs and perched on his knee. It then sucked in and inverted the top third of the sphere, making a concave depression to serve as a tiny speaker.

Karpusi couldn't make out much. "I can barely hear what they're saying, you fool. You sure you put it close enough?"

"It's fine. Beta's just fuckin' quiet, that's all. There, here's his little girlfriend, you can hear her just fine."

"We're not interested in the girl, you ass!"

"Actually," Adnan bit back, "we _are_. She's the one who's more likely to slip up and say something she shouldn't."

There came a knock at their carriage on the other side. "If you two plan on bein' quiet like, yer doin' a miserable job," their cabbie called, and as one voice, Adnan and Karpusi told him to _shaddup_, then glared at the other for doing it.

It was a good thing the aud and vid feed was being permanently recorded, because Adnan and Karpusi never got much done in the here-and-now. Paying attention would only be beneficial if Beta - or his date - managed to say something incriminating enough to warrant arrest. But Beta had a history of being tight-lipped - they all did except for Alpha, which was why they called him Alpha, he was the least good at being subtle - so he wasn't likely to say anything good tonight.

However, it was enough to know he was here. They'd tracked his airship in from outside - but they couldn't judge from the trajectory from which planet. Karpusi suspected Nunat, the second last planet before Olyokin's (and another godforsaken ice ball, if you asked Karpusi or Adnan, not that they'd admit to being in agreement).

But what did that tell them? They're stationed on Nunat. Big fucking whoop, they'd known that since last year. The crew weren't likely to pick up and move to a different planet, but Nunat wasn't so tiny that they could search the entire thing. And someone in their group - Alpha through Epsilon, they'd named them all - had managed to pick up being really good at hide and seek.

What they knew of the group was at the same time a lot and nothing at all. Alpha wasn't the leader but he was the loudest of them all, the one they'd heard first. Beta was the one they were listening to now, who was talking with his little date about some kinda pirate jobs, one on the Dordlands - wherever that was - and another in the Nova sector, which Karpusi had heard of recently.

Gamma, Karpusi thought he saw once at an auction, and then he turned around and looked Karpusi in the eyes with this creepy, awful, hypnotising stare... The next thing Karpusi knew he was looking at empty space where the man had been. (Adnan had had a field day with that one. "Falling asleep standing up!" Hah.)

Delta was the _super_ quiet one. Adnan claimed he heard his voice through an aud feed once but Karpusi was pretty sure he was lying about that to make himself look better to their supervisor (who saw through it anyway, so take that, Adnan). Wherever Delta was implicated, there was legislative trouble around.

And then there was Epsilon, whose identity they had traced back to a man on Olyokin named Tino Väinämöinen. He had a decent record until about age fifteen and then simply _disappeared_. It was infuriating.

Karpusi listened in silence to the feed with Adnan for the remainder of the date. More than once he fell asleep and had to be shaken awake by Adnan. Olyokin had no coffee, just tea, tea and more tea, what did Adnan expect?

Suddenly - "There, hear, did you hear that?" Karpusi said. Adnan mumbled a reply and this time, Karpusi shook _him_ awake. "Get your ears out!" he said.

The Eavesdropper kept blaring on. "'...need him for?' 'Nothing like bad or anything. Just - well, you know my friends. One of them needs a little assistance.'" Her friends? What kind of friends?

"'We should talk about it later.' 'Later?' 'I can ...get a room, if you want. But I brought the airship this time, not the stealthship, so. We can have privacy...'"

"Should we follow them?" Adnan asked.

"For what? To spy on this guy's booty call? We'll only get as far as the outside of the airship anyhow," Karpusi muttered, "and they keep changing the exterior of the damn thing, it probably looks nothing like it did five months ago."

"She said she's got friends who need 'assistance'," Adnan replied. "How much do we know about Beta's little girlfriend?"

Agnieszka Janowska. Close friend of the Rubetski family, Olga Rubetska's 'bestest bestie'. Vitim high-society butterfly, about twenty-one years of age. Completed a minor degree in Vityaz political history with Rubetska and Katarzyna Sobewicz, graduated with honours last March.

Had 'friends' who required Delta's 'assistance'. Nobody high-class would never require that kind of assistance.

Who were her real friends?

"Obviously," Karpusi concluded, "not nearly enough."


	14. 14 - Liechtenstein

**a/n:** mild warning for dubcon in this chapter. It's true, Katya's bondsgirl really does love her, but ultimately, she's a servant and never had a choice in the matter.

_(liechtenstein)_

She could not speak with him during the trip back home. Gospozha Katya had wanted silence and so she read the book Katya had given her - an anthology of Vitim romantic poetry translated from the original Zvanie - and spent the rest of the time sleeping. Eduard slept on the floor; she slept in the screened-off section in the bed with Katya.

...If Katya had wanted her that night she would have gladly obliged - the screen was thin but it wasn't like the new bondsman didn't know what she had been bought for, after all. But Gospozha Katya made no moves and so she too rolled over and slept.

But the second they landed and got the new bondsman settled - Eduard, Matthieu had reminded her, his name was Eduard - which did not take very long, as he did not bring any luggage, the first question she asked was to go and see him in his quarters.

Katya said _no, I need your help_, so she pouted a little but followed her Gospozha to the library.

They spent a few hours there, until she looked up and it was well past dinner. She had hardly even paid attention to the protests from her stomach; there had been sustenance on the airship and she'd had something before they began researching, but the topic was interesting and absorbed her attention fully.

Katya had given her a set of some five books and asked her to look through them for anything useful in regards to a Vitim youth who had aged without having cleared his or her Time.

It was the third book, _Speculative Theories on Evolutionary Extra Biology_, that had yielded the most information. Halfway through, it suddenly hit her as to why she hadn't seen Ivan in three years.

_...the problem having cropped up sometime after the introduction of the drug phinleratin, a corticosteroid containing the biogenic amine khadaranin, which was originally used as a performance enhancer among tribal dancers. Khadaranin is now integral to the Vitim brain and biological function (see: __Fedorova's syndrome__, __Endocrine diseases among the Vitim__). Therefore, it is impossible to get rid of the process now known among the Vitim as the Time. This implies directly that abstinence as a sexual practice is biologically inadvisable among the Vitim; unsurprisingly they have adopted the practice of chestnost' or honesty, and are generally very open about speaking on such issues where other cultures instead may adopt a taboo (see: __New Joplin__)._

_There are certain drugs that may cause the Time to be prolonged or abstained for a period but for reasons that will become apparent, these have become illegal to procure, sell, or fabricate on Olyokin. Prolonging the Time has the tendency to cause, in addition to the usual rise in body temperature as per any mammalian oestrous cycle (hence the common term, 'heat'), predatory and savage instincts in both the male and female, chiefly due to the tissues' prolonged exposure to khadaranin. The Vitim individual becomes violent, unruly and petulant, as a toddler might if his favourite toy were taken away. Attentional control becomes scattered, due to the abundance of khadaranin in the frontal areas of the brain. These symptoms too may be abated with frequent use of bloodthinners. Momentarily decreasing the amplitude of the spike through orgasm achieved manually may also serve some help._

_But it is important to note that these are temporary solutions. If not sated by penetrative sex resulting in orgasm (which is prolonged, and on the order of a minute or at the very least tens of seconds - such results typically achieved in most sexual encounters with a partner among the Vitim), the spike in khadaranin will eventually erode the brain tissues and a comatose-like state is achieved; at best, the patient is locked-in, at worst they may persist in a vegetative state._

_It is theorised that the Time returns in the event that the Vitim in question becomes celibate or otherwise abstains from sexual contact, but no conclusive studies have as yet been undertaken._

_The motivations for prolonging one's Time in a society as sexually liberal as the Vitim are ill-understood by the author. However, it is well-known that the Zhar-ptitsy, a Vitim tribe living on reserves in the south of the Vityaz state Zhennylakin, have practiced abstinence until the age of twenty-one as a way of life for some hundreds of years. Being that this topic is beyond the scope of the current work, for a further discussion on this from a vitropological standpoint, please see Q.I. Prenticiorna's treatise on the tribe entitled __Firebirds: Religion and Sex among the Primitive Society Vitim._

_**Origins**_

_It has been shown (see: Walsh et al.) that there is a point mutation in the base pairs present in the Vitim genome that is not present in the human genome. This causes a stop marker to be transformed into argisine, and formerly two proteins become one, causing natural production of a material that was found not to be khadaranin but an enzyme compatible with khadaranin. The most likely time of first occurrance is thought to be sometime during the Lyodyrov Dynasty of the Empire, wherein individuals just below the age of puberty began taking phinleratin as a performance enhancer._

_It is perhaps the function of the drug, combined with the timing of abusing it directly before puberty, that allows for the mutation to have occurred over several generations of tribal dancers. For example, the McCall experiments on rhesus monkeys proved that abuse of phinleratin in pre-pubescent monkeys encouraged the hypothalamus uptake in khadaranin and re-regulation of the endocrine system to take into account the foreign substance, though it is the rhesus pancreas that secretes and regulates the substance in question. Both groups of monkeys who were given phinleratin, however, were thereafter permanently dependent on the drug._

_The differences between what would later become the Vitim race and the human race became known fifty years after the fall of Regnant Empress Feodora Lyodyrova, wherein during an operating theatre surgery performing a routine gallbladder removal, it was discovered that a human - now considered one of the first Vitim - carried within her an engulfed purplish-coloured organ precisely at the location of the human spleen. When asked about this, the tribal members present at the surgery replied that this was the zandra, and that it was the location of both Hunger and Thirst._

_It has long thought to be the case that the spleen was 'kickstarted' into functioning in this way by the adoption of this substance among the Vitim; however, this cannot be the only difference as Vitim and humans are still incompatible for procreation. Experiments on rhesus monkeys are on-going in the pursuit of this hypothesis. (see: __McCall et al, McCall, Zubra and Firova)_

_Plate 12.7. A human spleen side-by-side a Vitim zandra. Note the similarities along the top lobe of the zandra and the upper part of the spleen. Also note the differences in red pulp to white pulp ratio on the human spleen to the Vitim zandra._

_Figure 12.2. Endocrinal hormones khadaranin, LH, testosterone and estradiol versus age of 123 493 Vitim males and females (results averaged). Note the spike in khadaranin beginning around age 15. What is interesting to note is the temporal shift in the spike; we would ordinarily expect the onset of puberty around 10-12 for human girls and 12-14 for human boys. Among the Vitim, however, it is common to see 15-17 for both girls and boys._

_Plate 12.8. A dissected rhesus monkey brain with a sublethal dose of khadaranin sustained over the period of three years. Note the dramatic shrinkage in the frontal lobe._

_The author wishes to thank Q.I. Prenticiorna for valuable discussions and theories._

"I need this book," she told Gospozha Katya, who looked over her shoulder at the reference where she was pointing.

"Yes you do," Katya replied. "Let me see if we have that here."

They did.

A half an hour later she had a small list:

-violent, does not realise his own strength, childlike, impatient, irritable  
-mental faculties: unexplained attention deficit  
-visual abilities: vision decreased by as much as 50% in males who wait until 21  
-physically: stronger than usual, less able to feel pain, epinephrine increase  
-tactition supersensitive due to inflamed tissues pressing against the parietal lobe  
-lack of ability to feel pain causes lack of empathy  
-impaired brain functions due to excess khadaranin, some irreversible tissue degeneration, brain shrinkage and irreversible damage

...and she had to stop there, because her tears blurred her vision and smudged the ink. Katya held her as she cried, let her climb into her Gospozha's lap, and they took a fifteen minute break while she calmed down and Katya rocked her softly.

She first met Ivan when she was eleven - Katya was fifteen then, and there were six years between them so he would have been nine. He began teaching her what he learned at school when he was eleven himself. They were good friends, very close - as close as a freeman could be with a bondsgirl he didn't own, that is - and she shared everything with him, and he her.

The last time she'd seen him he was twenty-one. That meant he had at least four years of being in the hormonal thick of things and at most six years, during which he still spent time with her.

He was sweet, he was kind. He was probably her best friend. She was familiar enough with their younger sister to be able to call her Natasha but Natasha - who was seventeen now, and was two when she had arrived at the Duma so many years ago - had always preferred the company of boys over girls. Her big brother was her undisputed favourite sibling; she remembered feeling threatened by Natasha because obviously, who would pick the bondsgirl over the Vitim freegirl?

Ivan did. Ivan had never seemed to know the difference between someone who was free and someone whose entire existence lived to serve another human being. He always treated her with the same respect he gave both his sisters. But had he had another reason?

Was it because he had been under the influence of the Time? Was it just because he wanted to _take_ her, was everything she'd known about her best and only friend outside of Gospozha Katya - who was her entire world, her existence, her reason for breathing - a lie, fabricated by a crazy biological quirk that came about because a pagan society placed too much importance on sacred dances?

But it couldn't have been, because not once with Ivan - not once - had she ever felt the pull in the pit of her belly that she'd felt with Katya. The moment she stepped into the examining room with Gospozha Katya, she'd known. Her entire biology was reset with the tonic Francis made her took; it made her look younger, yes, but it also made her more attuned to hormones. And Katya had been expelling them then in waves.

"Alcohol," she was told when she asked Katya. "It's a decent enough bloodthinner. Between that and the hot showers, I think he was probably able to stave off the hormonal effects as long as he has."

"That's why I haven't seen him in so long."

"That's exactly why," Katya said, murmuring it in her hair, rubbing her back. "My darling, my love. You know he is your friend, you mustn't doubt his friendship. But he couldn't be around you then. He still cannot."

Why would Ivan do this to himself?

"Is he -" she almost couldn't say it, she had to force the words out, because they stuck in her throat - "is he going to be a vegetable?"

Katya was silent. "I don't think so," she said finally. "Not if we work quickly. We have to clear him of his Time so that this episode may pass, chemically speaking. Then he can return to normal. You must remember for the past six, possibly eight years, he has not been normal."

And she sobbed harder. "But what if - what if he - he might kill Eduard!"

"Shht, my love," cooed Katya. "He won't. Edu- that man knows what to do. He will be prepared."

"How can he possibly be prepared for this?"

"I will make sure of it," Katya replied, and the steel behind Katya's voice silenced any further queries she might have had.

.:.

They left for the kitchens after that, because Natalya and the others had already had dinner (Ivan of course had taken his in his quarters, like he had done for the past year now), and she ate a little soup and cheese while Katya checked her mail, although she still felt miserable.

Eduard won't die, she kept telling herself. Katya wouldn't do that. For me, she wouldn't do that.

"If you wish," Katya said, "you may go and visit the new bondsman in his room." So she took her leave of Gospozha Katya and was almost outside the kitchen when she heard, "But I want you to return to my chambers tonight."

"Yes, Gospozha," she replied, although how she could even make her body think of sex would be difficult at a time like this. It was fortunate for her she could rely on her training. Katya did not often have to require the Signal, not after fifteen years of being so gloriously in love it still made her melt. But in those times that she was simply not capable, it was good as a fallback.

Because frankly, she could not stop thinking of the research earlier today. The twenty-one year old she read about broke all four of his mate's limbs. He had only been in the grip of the Time some five years. Ivan had had eight.

Was Katya permitting her visit to Eduard's quarters in order to say hello, or goodbye?

She had to knock twice - two sets of three - on his door. The first time had come out more as a tremble and she'd hardly made contact with the wood.

"Yes? Oh, hello," Eduard said, when he opened the door, "come in."

"Were you expecting me?" she asked.

"I wasn't until the handmaiden brought around the books," he replied, "then, I was." He referred to the handwritten notes and set of six books she had helped Katya assemble as useful for someone about to bed a Vitim that could _snap you in half_.

Not that that would happen. That would not happen. Katya would not let that happen. He was doing this research so that it _would not happen_.

"I was wondering," Eduard asked, "if it's not too much trouble. Do you remember what the Gospozha's Time had been like?"

"Most of it," she said. The parts she remembered, how she would ever be able to forget them, she didn't know.

"Are you allowed to discuss the experience?"

"Not ... not usually," she admitted, "Gospozha has never said not to, but it's private. But. If it may be useful to you..."

"It would. It certainly would. You remember Mishek," and yes, she did remember Mikhail, the lovely boy from university that Francis had procured to help teach their set of adepts about the Vitim Time. Katya's had been nothing like his, but then again, Katya was like no other on this planet, in this solar system. "Will it be like that?"

"I. I really don't know," she said. "With Gospozha Katya, it was... well, from the moment she stepped into the room she was all I could concentrate on. I had to be told later what happened in the Emporium because I do not remember any of it. Apparently I made a fool of myself during the cavity exam."

"You'd have to ask Matthieu," Eduard laughed, "he would have been the one who was there." Matthieu, who was present at almost all of Francis' sales. "What happened when you got home?"

"She asked me to come to her quarters after she washed up, so the maid led me there about fifteen minutes later. Um. She was - how much detail do you want, really?"

"As much as you're allowed," Eduard admitted. "I ... have the feeling the more prepared I am, the better this will go."

How could she feel awkward or uncomfortable when this man may be led to his certain death in a matter of days, or hours? "You're right," she said. "I'm sorry. It. It took place in her bedroom, as I said. She was on the bed, reclined. She wore only a plain snap-front robe, and she had me undress. I was still wearing what Francis had me wear, so there was no corset to deal with.

"That was probably for the better. The second I was in the room I - well, she snapped her fingers but there was no need.

"I joined her, on the bed, I wasn't sure if she wanted to start with kissing or anything. She- she touched me, held me, ran her fingers through my hair -" and as she spoke it felt like the words came more easily to her mouth, fell gently off her tongue - "she let me open the front of her robe, push it off her shoulders. Let me kiss her on the neck, expose her chest, tear the robe open -" the loud sound of snaps so thrillingly loud in her ears even now... perhaps it was better she came to see Eduard first before Katya. Now she would be properly ready for her Gospozha. "I suppose I was teasing her too much so she took my hand and simply directed me down."

"Did you use your fingers?" he asked.

"At first. She complained they were too small." And reflecting upon the research they'd done earlier she felt she understood the reason for that now. "She had a vibrator, somehow powered, probably the same way Eavesdroppers are. She preferred me to use that, and that plus my tongue -"

She remembered, the desperate, gorgeous way Gospozha had pushed her down, she couldn't utter the order anymore, too busy breathlessly panting. She'd buried her mouth between Katya's legs, her tongue at first gentle, but it seemed Katya needed more than gentle, more than playful, it was just getting her impatient and unsatisfied and she was never all that good at waiting herself. So she put a little muscle behind it and _that_ - that, Katya _liked_ - she screamed, gripped her hair, and arched back - the memory was just as divine and even now she could practically feel the nails on her scalp and Katya's thighs on her shoulders -

And like a good bondsgirl she didn't stop either her tongue or her grip on the vibrator, deep, substantive thrusts, up and forward, until Katya finally batted her hands away, pulled her up, and clung like glue until her chest stopped heaving and she finally fell asleep.

She slept also, not long after, her forehead nestled against the side of Katya's warm neck; she could feel the pulse hammering behind it, slowing, drifting off.

"- well, you were trained for women too. You know the general process after that. It felt like an hour but it was only fifteen minutes."

"Felt like an -? _Goodness_. That bad?"

"No," she clarified, "oh, no, you misunderstand. That _good_. Everything she felt, it - it resonated, somehow? I could feel it, what I did to her, what I did for her. I kept at it, between her legs, until she came so hard she couldn't stand, and the next day I had trouble walking myself! That kind of thing. I think it's because we're attuned chemically to these things. We search them out - all of us, not just the service trade - these chemicals are insidious and pervasive but completely invisible. But to us, because of our training, they're so powerful. And I was bought for her, so - it made it all the more profound."

Eduard smiled. "You really like her, don't you."

She snorted. Liking! What ridiculousness! You didn't devote your very existence for the rest of your days to someone you _liked!_

"She is my _soul_," she said, hotly, "I don't just - you just don't understand. I like chocolate, I like poetry. What I feel for her, liking isn't even a _fraction_ of that." The clock struck nine, then, and she realised how much time she'd been spending chatting. "I should be leaving," she said.

"I have a lot of work to do," Eduard replied. "I'm glad you stopped by."

"Me too. Oh, Eduard. I - I really hope, that -" _that he doesn't kill you _- "that what I have with Katya, you find with Ivan."

Eduard didn't say anything, merely smiled thinly. "Good night."


	15. 15 - Estonia

**a/n:** dubcon in this chapter

_(estonia)_

It had only been a day that he had physically set foot on Olyokin - two days' trek from Hallar, another half-day on each end to get into the airspace of the planets in question - that was what, four days? And already he was in love.

This planet was beautiful. There was snow, everywhere, beautiful brilliant sparkling white. It blanketed the rooftops. It dusted the branches of trees, with their strange little needle-leaves. The days were shorter than they were on Hallar; twilight came at 5 or 6 o'clock, with hints of purple and pink in the clouds above the buildings.

It made him wish he could paint, though how it could ever be possible to commit the true beauty of what he saw to something as mundane as a canvas, he didn't know. Eduard was not permitted outside yet - Gospozha Yekaterina said they couldn't find him any outerwear in his size (pluswhich, she had a tone of _and you have a job to do inside anyway so do that first_). But he could see everything outside from the window of his tiny room in the Duma, and so far he was smitten with the skies, the mountains, the trees, the landscapes, the architecture, the city, all of it.

To his great surprise and joy, Eduard was permitted free reign of the library, so he made good use of this the first afternoon he was there, to find out why it was that you could have a "summer" on a planet that was frozen (he learnt, because of the tilt of the planet's axis; sometimes it was pointed towards the sun and got more hours of more direct light).

He didn't quite understand the politics at play. There were little hints here and there of something underhanded, that told him that the Empire Union was not all it claimed to be.

For one, there was not one single book he had found in the library so far that hadn't been printed in the Empire Union. Nothing printed in Kilnus and transported over. There were translations from Common Standard into Zvanie of well-known Kilnus stories, like folktales, or old adventure novels from sixty years ago. But there was nothing new.

The same was said of poetry, films, when he asked about them, and the radio, when he found it. It only picked up some five channels, which he thought was normal until it took him another trip to the library to ask how it worked, and the library implied that you could easily fit five channels into a frequency range of a hundred kilohertz. By that logic, the radio he found - which went from 600 to 1500 - should be picking up a lot more.

For two, nothing was ever delivered into the Duma that wasn't heavily inspected by fifteen different employees, it seemed. Eduard wasn't sure what they were looking for - Gospozha Yekaterina's bondsgirl didn't know either - but all three crates he saw delivered were a blend of foodstuffs, airship fuel vials, grain and feed for the horses, and the odd book and clothing item. Unless somewhere in there, there was something contraband, it all looked perfectly pedestrian.

He later wished he hadn't spent all day in the library, because that first evening, Gospozha Yekaterina had a maid deliver a set of books to his quarters - he was for the moment permitted his own away from his master (who he had yet to meet) - and some hand-written notes of her own. The first of them was a letter addressed to him, saying that since he could read competently, he ought to brush up on his extra biology and recall whatever training Francis had given him in the case of a Vitim master. Read the texts first, the letter instructed, then read these notes.

That made sense. He had been told he had been purchased for that reason: like most people living in the Empire, his prospective master, Gospodin Ivan (Yekaterina's little brother) was Vitim.

He had also been told that Ivan's Time was late. Judging from the books he was sent, this was ... many kinds of not good.

So he spent the remainder of his evening - minus a visit from Gospozha Yekaterina's bondsgirl - and the better part of the next day - minus travelling to the kitchen for meals - reading the texts.

They did not inspire much confidence in him. He was concerned, mostly for his own safety (ripped his mate's limbs off. _Ripped._ His mate's. Limbs. _Off_.) but also for Ivan's, as it seemed that Ivan was slowly losing his mind and might not get it all back.

But he should remember, he told himself, that it was not always like this, most of the time it was just a particularly good orgasm. This was nothing more than one of the worst case scenarios. (How had it come to this? Why couldn't he have just gotten laid at sixteen like every other Vitim?)

The more he read, the more concerned he became. He hadn't had a choice in his purchase. Even if she had told him what she was buying him for, he wouldn't have been able to turn her down, he didn't have the right. But by the description Gospozha Yekaterina had given him of his task, he inferred that it would simply be minor damage if any, at most a broken bone, nothing nearly as drastic as ripping limbs off.

A knock on the door interrupted his studies mid-afternoon on the second day, by which time he had read everything important twice and had become very worried about his safety. "Come in," he said distractedly, expecting Gospozha Yekaterina's bondsgirl again.

Instead it was Gospozha Yekaterina herself. Automatically, he stood to receive the Gospozha's presence and only afterwards noticed her appearance. She wore heavy clothing which was in shambles, as though she'd prepared for hunting a fox and had met a wolverine instead. Her thick leather vest was torn at the shoulders, and she carried the belt with her holster and pistol on it, because the buckle was missing.

"You may speak freely. I suspect you have many questions to ask me. First let me inform you that I have just now been to see my brother," she said quietly, and that made him apprehensive, given her clothing. "The tranquiliser he received should last for another hour or so."

"Tranquiliser?"

"I had to ... restrain him several times today, to move him. Not due to violence, not at first. He has become a deeply faithful man, my brother, and ... he does not want to give in to the Time, so he had himself a bit of a tantrum when I confronted him this morning. And _then_ he put up a fight. Anyway.

"For the Time to clear he must be free of any other substances. Fortunately the hormones in his body will rid the blood of pretty much anything in half the time it usually takes, so we have less time to wait. Less time to wait, as you have no doubt read, means less brain damage done."

"Do - do you think he is indeed impaired?"

"We will have to see once the Time clears. At this point, I am really not sure. I am not an expert in these matters. Nor can I call one in." She made herself comfortable on the chair by the desk and he sat up on the bed.

"Only four people know of the fact that Ivan's Time has not yet been cleared; myself, my bondsgirl - who only just found this out yesterday - Ivan himself, and now you. As I said in my letter, we must keep it this way. For this matter to have prolonged so is quite ridiculous. And, moreover, as you've probably read... one is not really oneself, during the Time. I believe the people would suspect that the whole past eight years of his work at the Duma would be called into question. And they may call into question the suitability of their future Emperor, should Ivan be permanently damaged by this - this nonsense. They are right to question.

"Since privacy is of the utmost importance, I have placed Ivan in the dungeons. Of course, the Duma building is nearly a thousand years old; it contains dungeons. We ... do not often use them. I have secured one with a set of chains low on the floor to allow for a seated position, I thought this would probably be best for you to do your work."

"You want me to be seated?"

"No, that is for Ivan. He is there now, currently sleeping off the effects of the thetralorazine. Given the dose, and the fact that I removed all alcohol from the residence wings, and Ivan's office, _and_ he was prohibited taking his shower without the presence of a servant this morning, so that we could make sure he did not attempt bleeding himself... I would give him perhaps forty-five minutes. Then he will wake up, and by nightfall, in about an hour, he will be in full grip of his hormones.

"You have no doubt read of, or otherwise experienced, some sort of Time - I suspect Francis of Hallar probably found someone on Hallar who required assistance, and let his adepts assist them." That was exactly what Francis had done. "Then you know that ordinarily it is not a particularly violent act. You're not really you, during it, but it does not change you into a monster, just a sex-crazed lunatic. Since there is no basis, no precedent for this, I cannot tell you what to expect.

"It must be penetrative, obviously, for the Time to be cleared. At this point that really only means that you take the submissive role."

"There was another option?" That was oddly surprising.

Gospozha Yekaterina nodded. "Of course, it could have easily been the other way. Anything that results in a particularly strong completion, enough to rid the blood of the high concentration of this khadaranin hormone. But not now, what with Ivan quite completely out of his mind. Some advice, I should think you should start with your mouth and try and complete him once that way. I doubt that alone will be enough to sate the hormone spike, but it will take the edge off. As a result the main act should be simply very rough but not fatal. You may come out of it with a few bruises, but with Ivan chained up like this, you may be lucky enough to come out of it alive."

"You're saying. ... You're saying he might kill me."

"Yes," Gospozha Yekaterina said, "he very well might. And because this has to be kept completely secret, if he does, there will be nobody around to hear your last breath."

"There's no security feed, no vid or aud for the dungeons?"

"There never is. We do not use the dungeons much, as I said, and if we did... I suspect the sort of thing that took place in the dungeons would not be something we would ever want Eavesdropped in any way. What that means is I cannot prevent anything that happens to you, if something should. If things get particularly bad, try and scratch him somewhere. The act of bleeding will not fuel his anger, it will calm him a bit. But you must dig your nails in deep, and you must do it right the first time, because anything less than actually drawing blood he will perceive as asking for it or worse, fighting back. That, I suspect - based on today's encounter - will make him much angrier."

Eduard committed this all to memory, feeling worse and worse. Scratch him to draw blood if you need to calm him down, don't do it halfway. Suck him first, then the sex. Try not to die. Die. Going to die. He was _going to die_.

This was. This was unthinkable. Impossible. He'd wake up any minute now, just a bad dream.

"You must forgive me," Gospozha Yekaterina said, softly, "I know I come off as short and cold. But I only tell you this to prepare you for the worst possible scenario. I do not want that. Believe me, I want what's best for my brother, and that is to keep you alive. If he manages to kill you, he will never forgive himself. It will probably drive him mad, and he will be just as unfit for the Empire as he would have been if he became seriously damaged from postponing his Time. We would have to sequester him or give him to the brotherhood." She sighed. "Some days I'm not convinced that wouldn't be better for everybody, anyway."

He nodded, feeling numb, his stomach in knots, his fingers trembling, clutching the coverlet of the bed in order not to betray his anxiety. _He was going to die. They were going to kill him._

"I will come and fetch you myself in an hour," Gospozha Yekaterina stated, standing. "Do whatever you must to make yourself ready."

And he nodded again, his mind a perfect terrified blank.

.:.

After being physically ill in the washroom with fear, Eduard managed to calm himself only enough to not spend the next hour panicking.

Instead, he spent it reading like a madman, flipping through the pages of the books so fast he tore one or two out with his clumsy, quivering grip, looking for something, anything, that might be useful in his position.

It was useless. There was nothing. Anything good had already been distilled out of them and collected on Gospozha Yekaterina's notes, and _those_ he'd read now so many times he could tell where he kept holding the papers up from the stains of skin oil and sweat.

The knock came suddenly. The shock, the pure shock from the sound after a period of perfectly dead silence made him jump and gasp, and his insides seized in dread. He clenched his fists, the icy fingertips a horrifying feeling on his clammy palms.

Gospozha Yekaterina did not wait for him to answer before she opened the door this time. "It is time," she said softly, and he took some solace in her expression. Though she had been critical and judging in Francis' office, she was now warmer, doting and kind. She wants to help, she only wants to help, he thought.

But she was leading him on a march to the scaffold. Through this room and that room, behind that curtain, this hidden hallway behind the bookshelf and potted plant, down these stairs. They took a twisted path throughout the Duma deep into its murky bowels.

The more they descended, the colder it became. This part of the building was entirely stonemasonry, in sharp contrast to the beautiful dark wood panelled walls everywhere else in the Duma, and stone did not appear to keep the cold out very well. Gospozha Yekaterina removed a handtorch for the dark passage from her pockets - she still wore the same thing she wore before, her leather vest and thick woolen trousers, stuffed into heavy boots that clicked loudly on the stone steps.

As for Eduard and his old, faded boots, he was silent behind her with every dizzying step down.

It was ominous and foreboding, like he had already begun to cease to exist.

Some time later he began to hear the sounds, and his heart palpitations doubled.

A low, keening moan, like a beaten animal. The clink of chains, the scraping screech of metal against stone, like nails on chalkboard.

Eduard had to force himself to keep going, despite the dank feeling in his bones, the shortness of breath.

It's an echo, it's just an echo, we're not there yet, he told himself.

And they weren't, because they were still walking when they first heard the first high-pitched laugh, a cackle followed by a particularly loud jingle of chains. "You _are_ coming for me, then!" a voice called. "I can _heeear_ you."

"He lies." The Gospozha turned to him. "There is another fifteen minutes' walk that remains. Don't listen to him, he - he isn't himself." But that meant nearly nothing. The symphony of terror continued, growing louder and louder as they approached, and he felt his face alternate between flushing and freezing, especially when Ivan called out in a sing-song voice, "_Ohhh_, who is that with you, sister? He smells _delicious_."

Shortly before they reached the dungeon where Ivan was, he began to feel even worse, if that had been possible. His stomach, still clenched, seemed to bear a low weight in the pit, as though he'd made the stupid mistake of eating a lump of pure lead. (Lead poisoning would be a kinder death than the one where he was heading now.) It was a cold, dead weight (like he would be soon), and choking the feeling down, visualising it being suppressed, did _not a single bit_ of good.

And the feeling only grew as they approached, the heavy cold spreading like a disease throughout his torso, along his spine, to his knees.

By the time they were steps away he could hardly breathe, it was in his lungs, it permeated his flesh, it ricocheted against his ribcage and he realised, he could _smell Ivan_ from _outside the door_.

His senses - the tonic. That's what the bondsgirl had said, they were attuned to these chemicals, they picked them up like radio signals. His body certainly was busy doing that; he was already hard (inexplicably!) and shaking, though no part of his active mind really wanted sex anymore. Eduard felt like he'd trade a lifetime of sex away happily if he could just survive this, please.

"This is it," the Gospozha said, and the sounds inside grew to a crescendo - _he knows we're here_. "Remember what you studied. Be clear and focus. Can you focus?"

"Yes," he whispered, because he found he could. Though the Gospozha's bondsgirl couldn't remember what happened in Francis' office, no part of his mind felt in any way subdued. It must be the difference in Times, he thought, remembering something like that which he had read. As a sort of preservation strategy, the chemistry had changed, the pheromones wouldn't dull his senses.

Wouldn't it be more merciful if they did?

"He is chained, as you can hear -" Ivan punctuated this with a particularly loud crash of chain, like cymbals, and an enraged half-snarl half-giggle. "If you succeed, he will probably pass out. There is food and drink at the other end of the dungeon and a chamber pot should you require it. I will return in the morning."

"It will take _that long?_" he asked, his voice high and taut with stress.

"I do not know how long it will take," Yekaterina said. "These are the limits of research. Anything beyond the threshold of this door is uncharted territory." She pulled hard, heaved it open by just enough for the width of a human being, and Ivan's voice seemed louder still. "Go now."

He slipped through, weak-kneed and shaking, and she shoved the heavy door shut behind him, and locked him in.

.:.

The air was fuzzy with the smoke from the torches - the old-fashioned kind, some sort of fuel, perhaps gas, which burned and gave off a strange smell. Probably did, anyway. As for himself, he couldn't smell much, besides Ivan, who filled his senses.

The second the door had been slammed shut behind him, his mind appeared to clarify on several points; he supposed this was the effect of the pheromones in the air, making him feel more acute, more analytic.

Point one, Ivan looked _miserable_. He seemed as though he would be an exceptionally beautiful man - it was a shame Eduard hadn't seen a better picture beforehand - and that surprised him. But that might also be the pheromones talking.

Now, though, he was dressed in an old robe, snap-front, sitting propped up against the dungeon wall with his arms outstretched. He looked ill, in the face - his skin glowing in the warm light of the torches with a sheen, his hair dark grey with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His legs weren't bound but his hands were. His wrists were cuffed with strong, hard iron, and the chains linking the cuffs to the wall were very short and did not allow much in the way of freedom of movement, judging from the red blisters around his wrists that were already forming.

This was good, this was somewhat reassuring. He was still terrified - there was a lot one could do with magnificent legs like that, peeking out from beneath the robe; they were incredibly muscular.

Point two, his entire body seemed to have taken over the rational part of his mind that only wanted to flee. Without the say-so from his brain, Eduard's hands had already removed his vest and were now working on the fastenings of his shirt. He actually had to make a conscious effort to slow them and not rip the material or buttons.

It was very strange, the disconnect from his senses and his logical thought processes. His body wanted this badly enough that he salivated, but it was difficult to swallow saliva from the fear.

Just do this, he thought, trying to calm himself down, you're in it now, just - keep going, get it over with.

Point three, Ivan had noticed him the second he was in the room. He hadn't yet said anything in Common Standard, just moaned and gripped the chains. But his eyes, bright purple, followed his form everywhere, and judging from the reaction under the robe some part of him wasn't displeased.

As Eduard approached him, now nude (he'd taken his belt off and placed it near Ivan's bare foot, close at hand for him, but out of kicking reach), Ivan thrashed harder and tried to back up closer to the wall. He heard him mutter, "No, no no, please no, God," in Common Standard.

The Gospozha was wrong. Somewhere in there, Ivan was still very much present.

"It's alright," he said, "this'll be over soon." Ivan's whimpers gave him strength, because one of them had to be strong for this, and if it wouldn't be Ivan perhaps it could be him. He decided to try being comforting, try smoothing the man's hair back, reaching a shaking hand out slowly, like attempting to pet a feral animal.

Ivan snapped, snarling, and tried to bite his hands (nearly succeeded, too). Seconds later he calmed down, the beastly side having mysteriously disappeared to reveal a pained victim. He groaned, and complained, "It hurts. My God, it hurts."

Correction. Somewhere in there, Ivan was still present, but fading fast.

Get to work, he thought, and he undid the snaps of Ivan's robe. "Don't," Ivan whispered, and tried to keep his legs together.

Eduard pried his thighs apart and knelt between them. "I have to," he said. "I'm sorry." He took the thick, large head into his mouth, still sort of terrified but also planning: if this part all went well, he would need at least three fingers because Ivan was tall, and broad, and certainly _proportionate_.

"Please," Ivan whined from above, but it wasn't clear whether he meant _please stop_, or _please more_. It could have been either: he thrashed the chains again, Eduard could hear, but the muscles in his legs quivered once before the limbs fell entirely lax.

He took more in, and Ivan moaned something that wasn't Common Standard, some sort of beautiful rustling murmur. It wasn't his imagination when he felt Ivan push back, try and insert more of his erection into Eduard's mouth needily. It reassured Eduard, told him he was doing something right at least, and keep it up and this'll all be over soon, right?

But it didn't last. The sounds Ivan began making kept Eduard's fear steady and present. He was slowly trading actual vocabulary for grunts and incoherent sounds, had stopped saying anything now in Common Standard, and nothing in that strange sibilant mumble that Eduard thought must have been Zvanie. (This was a shame, because the throaty way he said anything in Zvanie, lost in lust, was incredibly arousing, in spite of the situation.)

What he lost in words, however, he gained in aggression, and before long his thrusts into Eduard's mouth were tough, vehement, punitive, and Eduard had to pry his legs apart to keep them from surrounding his shoulders and _forcing_ him to give what Ivan's body wanted.

The look Ivan gave him, when Eduard peeked up, was horrifying. The man was gone, replaced by something savage, something wild. A legitimate monster, and he was locked inside its cage and teasing it. He snarled and gnashed his teeth as though to say _what are you waiting for, imbecile? Do what you came here to do!_

Eduard redoubled his efforts, tried moaning around Ivan's erection, hoping the vibrations would be intense enough for completion. Stimulated the base with his hand, because there was no way he would be able to take it all in. With his other, he clenched into a fist and pressed on the cuticle of his thumbnail - a trick to try and fool the gag reflex. A wise choice, because no sooner had he done that than Ivan's left leg managed to escape his grasp, and wormed its sly way around Eduard's shoulder. In one fierce movement, he _pulled_, shoving himself practically down Eduard's throat.

It took all of that, and what seemed like minutes. But finally, _finally_, Ivan's cries grew louder, longer, and with a final shout, he slammed his head back on the stone and came.

Eduard spat it out - didn't think the monster would care overmuch - and quietly counted how long it took before Ivan could open his eyes again.

Three seconds. Not enough for the Time. Not even close.

So, plan B. With Ivan currently distracted, he moved quickly, grabbing the belt where he'd put it, and flipping the pocket open to retrieve the tiny refillable bottle. Unscented, but excellent quality. He tilted it, poured a good amount out - more than he'd need, but he wasn't concerned about not being messy, he was concerned with living through this experience to tell the tale. (Not that he would ever actually tell it. Funnily enough, it _just_ didn't seem like anything to brag about.)

Eduard leaned back, exposing himself, but at this point fear had obliterated any shyness or shame he might have had. As he inserted two fingers - not bothering to start off with one, didn't think he had enough time - the monster in chains took note. There's practically no refractory period with this condition, he remembered, and sure enough Ivan was hard again, breathing loudly as he leered, his hands still cuffed in chains, straining in their bonds off the walls. Like he was reaching for him.

He added another finger, tried spreading them, tried relaxing (and _that_ was damned impossible), and finally decided to give up there. He climbed into Ivan's lap, bending his knees and leaning them up on the wall on either side of Ivan's chest - Ivan moved his own legs out of the way for him, really rather considerate for a _total savage_ though Eduard thought he could do without the feral, hungry look in Ivan's eyes - and directed him in.

Ivan did not appear to like that. He made a sound somewhere between a yell and a war cry, and glowered. From his vantage point, Eduard was probably still teasing the poor monster by only allowing the head, scooting quickly out of the way when his pelvis shifted up to force more in. "Easy," he said, "just, a little slowly." He descended more, and he really hadn't prepared enough but that didn't matter, he could take a little pain.

Once Ivan was fully inside, Eduard shut his eyes and took a moment for himself, breathing deeply through his nose. The dungeon no longer seemed freezing cold, despite being constructed of stone and buried underground on a frozen wintry planet. Eduard felt flushed, pleasantly tingling and warm. There was a heady, thrilling sensation that accompanied this that he hadn't counted on, that hadn't been discussed in any of the books or notes he'd read. It made his heart thump loudly and strongly in his chest, not with fear or adrenaline, but a kind of curious, dark anticipation.

It was intoxicating. Slowly, very slowly, the fear melted away, and all that was left was pressing arousal, the strongest he'd felt in awhile. This must be the resonance the bondsgirl had mentioned.

A clash of chains from above reminded him he wasn't here to enjoy the scenery. "You're right," he told the poor brute, his voice low, and raised himself up the length of Ivan's erection, only to shove himself back down on it.

Both of them gasped, and he didn't think it fair to deprive them of what they obviously both wanted. He began moving more quickly now, his downward thrusts a little faster, a little more regular.

"Ah," Ivan moaned, "ah, - ah," in time to his rhythm, it was practically musical. The fingers he'd used to stretch himself were still slick with oil, so he took his own erection in hand, hoping the other hand on the ground would be sufficient to keep his balance, because he needed, so badly, to touch himself. Why had he been afraid of this? he wondered, as he stroked. This was glorious, so glorious.

The world had just condensed into a single point of need when Eduard heard the tiny clink of rock on stone. His eyes fluttered open.

Then again. And then a few more times, heavier clink, larger rocks. What the -

The mortar holding the stones together, where someone had drilled a hole for the peg to attach a chain, where Ivan was bound, was loose. As though he'd seen it too, Ivan threw him a sudden, terrifying half-smirk, and the monster _yanked_ on his bindings on both sides. With a rain of dry mortar crumble, scattered across the ground, the peg came loose and Ivan was free. He reached over to his other side and tore the other peg out too, though it took a bit more force.

It had happened so fast Eduard was amazed, and a little stunned.

He recovered pretty quickly from the shock when he found himself winded on his back, on the cold ground, looking up at Ivan, who grinned down at him with the triumphant leer of a predator.

Oh _shit_.

Ivan thrust into him, brutally hard, without warning, setting a furious pace. And that _hurt_; Eduard yelped.

It did not deter Ivan. With a snarl, he clawed the sides of Eduard's chest with his nails and then dug his teeth into Eduard's neck. It almost, almost felt good, and again Eduard screamed - just a little too hard, a shade too rough, but he could still come from this eventually, thanks to his training. Ivan buried his hands below, one forearm beneath Eduard's arched back, the other gripping his hip hard enough to bruise, holding him in place to get better purchase to rut into him.

No escape, no escape from the relentless pounding and the blood -

Blood... That reminded him.

Eduard gathered the presence of mind, despite Ivan's hammering, to draw his own arms up and around Ivan, settling them on his back. Then, before Ivan could do anything about a pair of wandering hands, he dug the nails in and with a grunt, scraped them down as hard as he could on the skin. Ivan howled in his ear but calmed a fraction - did he get him? - but didn't stop the pace or the teeth at his neck, digging in, tearing the flesh.

He might be able to withstand this, he thought. Ivan wasn't paying any attention to his legs, in the air on either side of the man's body. Probably for the better, maybe that meant he might get to _keep them_. Similarly, he moved his arms back to the stone, keeping them out of the way. This could work. It hurt like hell but it would work.

And then, Ivan took one of his hands and, with a grunt, _slammed_ Eduard's forehead down in order to force his chin up, granting him more access to his throat. The rough, violent motion whacked the back of his head on the stone painfully, he heard a crack ... and very suddenly, his vision dimmed and darkened.

The last thing he remembered before he closed his eyes (it was all so sudden, he didn't have time for his life to flash before them) was the feel of the cold ground below him, the cold chain against his side where he bled, the cold air where he was exposed, and how everything else in contact with Ivan - his chest, his throat, his ass, his forehead, the back of his head where the blood pooled - was boiling, scalding hot... and then he was gone.


	16. 16 - Russia

**a/n: **I'm so sorry this took so long! DX

_(russia)_

Ivan woke up feeling groggy, with a sour taste in his mouth and one of the biggest migraines he'd had in awhile (and he had been having those a lot lately, the booze only helped with shifting the pain from one side of his head to another). Really, all he wanted was to drift off again and sleep some more, but it was impossible to sleep in this cold... Well, he thought, it's winter, I really ought to shut the windows when I go to bed...

And his bed was rock hard for some reason!

That was when he realised how long it had been since he'd felt cold. For the past five years now it had been nothing but constant overheating, always dehydrated from perspiration.

Also he was fairly sure he was actually sleeping on rocks.

He opened his eyes, and the sight he saw made him gasp and recoil in fear.

He was in the dungeons, in a stained and dirty robe, open at the front (which he quickly fastened closed) - that explained the cold and the rocks -

_Do you remember why?_

Yes, yes he did. If that hadn't been enough to remind him, the bloody, beaten body he had wrapped himself around and was cuddling was more than sufficient.

Shamefully his first thought wasn't about God, about praying for forgiveness for his transgression, because _what_ a transgression.

The first thing he thought was, _he's dead, he's dead, I've killed him!_

"No," he whispered, "no, no, I _can't_ have, no, please..." He was in the midst of reaching over to feel for the poor man's pulse, when he noticed the lacerations all over his neck - mostly scabbed, some still wet and shiny.

Had he done _that?_ His nails weren't sharp, bit them to the quick most days -

That sour, strange taste in his mouth.

_Oh, God._

"Oh God," said Ivan, backing up, scooting on his hands. He kept going until he reached the wall. "Oh God, oh my God. No," he whispered, and kept murmuring something along those lines as though incapable of speaking anything else in abject horror. He found himself strangely short of breath and panting in a few quick seconds. His hands, when he clasped them over his mouth to try and keep the air in his lungs - it seemed so quick to race out of them! - were ice-cold and shaking.

Breathe, he told himself, breathe, and he forced himself to calm down, to breathe more slowly and deeply, before the dizziness fully took over his head. About ten minutes later his mind was clearer, more logical - but no less terrified. He had clenched his eyes shut to try and quell the nausea, and as he opened them, he secretly hoped the man would be gone and it'd be nothing more than a really vivid nightmare.

He'd had nightmares like this before, but it was always a face he knew, if he could see the face in his dreams at all, the face of the person he assaulted, murdered and - and _destroyed_ while not himself. If not some faceless being, it was someone who made it all that much worse, like his sisters or Brother Toris.

_Toris_. Oh, God, he thought, what will Brother Toris think of this.

He came to the conclusion almost too willingly: I'll just not tell him. Nope. Can't tell Toris. Toris will think I'm dirty and sinful and disgusting, for having succumbed during this illness, for his lapse of faith and fall to such evil spirits. After all, hadn't he put his trust and love in God?

There was a small part of his mind that - that sounded a lot like Toris, actually - told him _thou shalt not profane thy speech, by outright falsehood or omission..._

He didn't even _want_ to think about Toris right now, he felt so sick to his stomach. What he'd done to this man, this man he didn't _know_ - this man who was bought and paid for like cattle because of a stupid family tradition that didn't make sense to Ivan, that he never wanted a part of, because it was just so very wrong, to _own a human being!_

What _had_ he done to him? He supposed it was only right to do a cursory examination; he was no medic and couldn't reset bones or anything (and if he'd ripped a limb off - oh, God help him if he had - couldn't reset that so easily either).

But he needed to make sure, to know - was he alive? Was there anything he could do to help? If there was, then surely it was his duty to help, having been the horrible, sinful, filthy cause.

Ivan forced his disgust down and carefully, very carefully inspected the man's throat. Well, he wouldn't be able to check for a pulse there, not with those lacerations, he hadn't washed his hands and - God only knew where he'd put them last, might give the man an infection or something. (Plus, oh God, supposing his spine had been broken? Can't move him too much.)

His wrist - take his wrist, there would be a pulse point there...Oh, the poor - his wrist was sprained, perhaps fractured. Swollen, the skin was too warm for normal, and the muscle shouldn't've been doing that. Probably sprained.

I really did a number on him, Ivan thought fretfully, guiltily. He took the other wrist. The man's skin was still warm; either Ivan had only blacked out for a few short minutes or - or just maybe -

Yes! Thank the blessed, ever-loving God _there was a pulse_. And strong, too.

He didn't realise he was weeping with relief until he felt the wet on his cheeks.

He did not kill someone. Yes, maybe he succumbed to the lust part of the equation but _not the killing_.

He might just be okay.

The rest of him, he thought frantically, I should check the rest of him.

Maybe another sprain on his elbow, he felt swollen and overwarm there too - looked like a dislocated shoulder (but not impinged, hopefully). One hip was looking very red but it wasn't clear whether that was a sprain or just a bruise.

He wasn't ... torn, down there. Oh, thank God. Ivan would never have forgiven himself if he had caused that much pain in such a way.

And the rest, blessedly, thankfully, looked worse than it was. There were lacerations, everywhere - only the skin and subcutaneous tissues though. He would need stitches but none of them were deep enough to affect the tendons, not even the ones on the ribcage, and the man was thin enough that it'd certainly be easy to do. He was bruised in a number of places - must have been recent, nothing was too darkly coloured yet. Just red, not purple. They must not have been here long. News to him; he had quite literally lost all sense of time, and it wasn't as though there was a clock with them.

The last thing he remembered was Katya coming to talk to him after breakfast before he could go out to see Brother Toris and apologise for his absence at the pub the previous night, when Katya had stopped him from going out. She had returned from Hallar, and he hadn't wanted to speak a word to her - the nerve of her, getting him a bondsperson, didn't she know he didn't want one, he'd deal with this in his own way as per his own faith? Meddlesome woman!

He had hardly remembered the night before that; perhaps it was better Katya had kept him in. There was no vodka, not in his bedroom, not by his desk, nor in the safe behind the walls and he didn't think Katya had known about that one. With no vodka, there was nothing to ease the itch in his veins or stop the pain in his head from reappearing and it had truly been an awful night... at some point he recalled locking himself into the bedroom, but after that it all became very hazy and foggy. He remembered only bits and pieces: scratching at the doors, trying to read and failing to be able to sit down for one second with a book, tearing the pages out when his vision failed him, screaming into his pillow.

There came a voice at the door. "Eduard?" It was Katya.

"Sister?" he asked, "sister, it's me."

"Vanya!" she said, surprised. "You're awake? Are you alright?"

"I'm, I'm fine," he said, struggling to get to his feet, then staggering over to the door - it took a bit more effort than he'd imagined. And, because he knew she'd want to know, he told her, "It's done."

"Oh, Vanushka, _good_, by the good of the General, give thanks!" It was relieving to hear her voice so clearly, good to hear she was so happy she was actually cursing. "And - the bondsman, he's alright?"

"He's -" Ivan turned back to look, "I think he's okay. In pain, probably. He's not - he's not awake yet. I'm not too sure what happened to him, but. He's alive, and in one piece."

"Give thanks, give thanks!" she murmured. "Wonderful news, Vanya. Brother, I- I'm so _sorry_ you had to go through this, but -"

"It's fine, Katya," he replied flatly. It was his own damned fault anyway. Couldn't control the sick temptation inside him. So much for those mind over matter meditation exercises Brother Toris had taught him! His useless, stupid brain. "Just get me out of here. I'd rather sleep in my own bed, I think." Yes, for the next week.

"What about the bondsman?"

What _about_ him, he thought. "We'll wait until he wakes, mend him, let him rest. And then I'll give him his papers."

"Vanya!" his sister scolded.

"What do you expect me to do, Katya? He shouldn't be enslaved, it's wrong. I think this whole thing is wrong and I _don't want him_."

"Did you expect me to go against tradition so that you could persist in your ridiculous quest of religious self-immolation? You're keeping him and that's final. I don't care if you don't fuck him but _freemen speak freely_, so at least until we can trust he won't say anything about last night, he has to stick around. Bad enough there are witnesses. Now I'm sorry you don't agree with that, but you can disagree all you like now that your mind is no longer the slave to your body. Which, by the way, you've yet to thank me for."

"_Thank_ you -! I'm to thank you for this? I assaulted a man in a dungeon - nearly killed him - and you want me to _thank you!?_"

"How bad is he, anyway? If you're awake and kicking and bickering with me, you obviously haven't driven yourself mad with grief, so he must not be _that_ worse for wear. Brother, make yourself decent, I'm coming in," she said, and he heard a heavy clink and screech as she unbolted and pulled the door open. It would stay open under its own weight, which was probably for the better - Katya could pull it open but not hold it open for long, and he'd be busy tending to - Eduard, his name was?

Eduard. It fit him, somehow. He looked like an Eduard. Blond, messy hair, covering a high forehead; refined, handsome features. A slender torso, a narrow waist. Scholarly. He belonged, not on a dungeon floor, battered and bruised, but at a university, maybe, or a library.

Though it seemed like something was missing. Ah, over there by his clothing, a pair of spectacles. Of _course_, he wears spectacles.

"What are you doing standing up?" Katya asked, holding some bedsheets and a tiny key. "Oh," she said, answering her own question, looking at the mess on the floor where the pegs holding the chains attached had been torn out of the walls. As she unlocked the cuffs around his wrists, they fell loudly to the ground. Didn't stir Eduard, though. "That wasn't supposed to happen."

"I surmised," he said acidly, rubbing his sore wrists. "There's bread, cheese and water in the corner; if you can get that, the servant can get his clothes and I'll get this Eduard."

"Didn't bring a servant," Katya told him, "I'll just leave that for the rats. This should really be kept as secret as possible. Bad enough four people know you didn't clear your Time until fucking twenty-four."

He didn't answer that. He felt bad enough already. Instead he concentrated on Eduard - no strangeness at the neck (bone-wise, he wasn't talking about the man's _ripped flesh_), everything looked okay - not overly warm to the touch, no swelling.

True, it'd be better safe than sorry, better not to move him at all, but they should really get him out of the freezing dungeons. He sat the man up, one hand under his knees, and another around his back, bearing most of the weight for the neck and head on his own shoulder. "Here," Katya said, presently ignoring the pile of clothes. She approached, unfolding one of the sheets, working with Ivan as he lifted him enough for her to wrap the sheet around.

He was heavier than Ivan thought he'd be from the mere look of it, and it took some significant strength to get to his own feet, though that might have also been an after-effect from last night. Ivan followed his sister with the clothing out of the dungeon and along the long path up to ground level.

"Is there much work to do?" he asked her, and she nodded as she fished out a torch from her pocket for the dark passage.

"Plenty for us both. I've things to do, mail needs answering."

"Mail?"

"Yes," she said, "mail - a lot of which is yours, and now that you're better perhaps you can start answering some of your own letters. I've got enough on my plate thinking about how we're going to deal with Aharon Poda and Spiridon Marinin of Olyokin after Yao Wang of Veshna."

"What do _they_ all want?"

"To marry me," Katya said simply, and it struck him as an example of how little attention he'd been paying his sisters.

"You're only thirty!" he blurted out, "you can't just go off and get _married!_"

And naturally, that was when Eduard finally stirred with a faint moan, in Ivan's arms, and Ivan's stomach flipped. Maybe he shouldn't be the one to carry him, not when he was the reason for his state. But Katya probably couldn't, not nearly that physically strong.

Eduard sort of exhaled deeply and, without opening his eyes, appeared to fall back asleep on his chest. Hopefully, if he roused entirely during this trip, Katya could calm him down.

"I'm supposed to be married by thirty," she reminded him, "we all are. Yao has just recently made his offer. It's probably the best one I'll get, certainly better than Aharon or Spiridon, so I think I'll accept. The richest country on Veshna is Bizhi, where he lives. It's still a monarchy, and Yao's the king."

"Do you even know any of these men?" Ivan hissed. "How can you marry someone you don't know? That you don't love?"

"Don't be foolish. Marriage isn't about love, not with people like us."

"You'll be very lonely and sad if you marry the Veshnan."

"No I won't," she said. "I will of course bring my darling with me. I'll have her. Yao is ... an interesting man, intelligent, a firm ruler. His viewpoints politically are very compatible with mine. He likes art, I like art. We'll get along. For everything else I'll have _her_."

Her, thought Ivan, the girl she bought and kept with her. Toris was always so critical of their relationship, when Ivan told him of his old friend, but for something that began in servitude it had always looked to Ivan like it grew into something completely different. He hardly thought of her as a bondswoman anymore. She may not have had a name but they all gave her different ones. His, for her, was _rodnaya_ - kinswoman, as though she were his sister.

She kind of was. Screw this Yao person, _she_ was more Ivan's in-law than he would ever be!

"I should go see her, now that I can," he said quietly, "I haven't spoken to her in some time now."

"You should," Katya agreed, "she misses you very much." _You made her worry, you brat_, he heard.

Ivan let the silence hang, feeling like he deserved the awkwardness and judgment.

He made the mistake of allowing Katya to lead him on, not really paying much attention to where he was going. He was still tired, groggy, and the dead weight (no not dead, just sleeping, only sleeping!) in his arms wasn't exactly being helpful, so it wasn't until they were outside his quarters and Katya was unlocking all five of his locks that he put it together. "Wait. I thought I told you I didn't _want_ him."

"So?"

"So, doesn't he have his own room?" Ivan didn't think he wanted to sleep with anybody ever again after a night like that.

"Don't be ridiculous. He's a bondsman. I took the liberty of putting a bed in one of your conjoining rooms. That is what you do with bondservants, Vanya." Ivan would have protested further but Katya continued, "Besides, I doubt you'll be anywhere else but your bedroom or office today, and someone needs to be with him when he wakes. Might as well be you."

"Are you sure that's wise?"

"I don't think there is a choice. My dorogaya doesn't have any medic training. I've got work to do. Your training's rudimentary but it'll do, and nobody else should know about what happened last night." She held the door open for Ivan as he passed through, and led him into the east room, the one that was decorated with thick cream-coloured wallpaper. It normally served as a drawing room, but for the bed now in the middle.

Katya pulled the covers back, and he laid the man in, as gently as he could. "I don't think his neck is broken," he said.

"No," Katya replied, pulling the cover back over him, "he's probably fine." And the bed wasn't even that big but Eduard seemed so small in it, so feeble and weak, his eyes closed, his throat a mess of red. I did that, Ivan thought guiltily. So sinful.

"Hey," Katya said, and he looked up at her smiling face. "Cheer up. It's not so bad, it could have been a lot worse. I know it's not what you wanted. But it really could have been a lot worse. And on the bright side, you never have to do that again in your life."

"I _won't_ use him for service," Ivan said firmly. "He will find himself very bored very quickly."

"He's bought and paid for no matter what. Why not put him to work doing something else?"

"Like what?"

"His scores are absurdly high," Katya said. "On his papers, I mean. His intelligence scores are there. Something like 99th percentile compared to other prospectives. 95th compared to freefolk, 93rd compared to freefolk who had already done a minor degree. Maybe you can have him help you out with all the work you've got to catch up on."

That still didn't feel right, still felt like taking advantage. But as he looked over at his desk in the adjoining room that served as his office, he noticed the drawers were full to bursting. And those were the forms that required being under lock and key. The rest of it was in neat piles around the desk, and about as tall.

He felt his headache grow. "That's a good idea."

Katya grinned. "I'll have Arisha bring you some coffee."

"That is also a good idea."

.:.

Eduard remained unconscious during setting his wrist, stitching and dressing his wounds, and, amazingly, re-setting of his shoulder - Ivan didn't know how anybody could manage sleeping through something like that, though he stirred a bit and moaned faintly. He considered waking him to check on more wounds - suppose he was concussed? - but thought better of it and let him sleep. The heavenly peace upon the bondsman's face made Ivan feel somehow less burdened, less guilty, and if Ivan looked at just such an angle, he couldn't see the gauze on his neck.

Ivan attacked the mail first, because he didn't get much these days that wasn't mostly fielded by Katya (that would probably change, now). A small task would make him feel productive. Two from Major Vmalkhina, one from the official designate to Zapreschniy State, those were probably about Posyolok Aritsevskiy, and - oh, dear, one from Brother Toris dated this morning. That's right, Ivan remembered, he had been on his way out the door to meet Toris when he'd been locked in his room. He opened that letter first with dread.

_My brother, in the heavenly peace of God_, he read, in Toris' elegant script,

_I received word from your sister the Gospozha Yekaterina that you had taken grievous ill yesternight and could not join me as you so often do at the Kapriz Gosudarstva. I very regretfully missed your company and I hope, in my sincerest soul, that you are not still aggrieved. I will call again tomorrow morning, but please, if you will not drink, I beseech you to meet me at the Kapriz tonight, even for just a minute. I must be assured of your health, and if that is in such shambles that you cannot muster the strength to walk the block and a half from the Duma to the tavern, I will truly be beside myself with worry._

_Beloved God salute you,_  
_Your faithful Br. Toris Laurinaitis of Olyokin_

Toris must have come along sometime earlier that day, while Ivan was still fast asleep in the dungeon. Fantastic. Well, he'd buy the man a drink tonight - Toris didn't like dealing with Katya, who had no doubt told him to fuck off when he had come by that morning. (She might have actually used those words, too.)

Only one of the three other letters was relevant; the other two were puerile stuff - the Major and the official designate pointing fingers at each other and saying _he disrespected my rightful rank_ and _she made me look bad in front of the citizens_ and _Gospodin won't you please punish him/her_.

Major Teresya Vmalkhina had not much to report from her end. Affairs with the settlement were decent and the people - mostly Sprus, some Kala - seemed to like the Vitim Major more than they liked the official designate.

Unsurprising that they should dislike the designate. Most far settlements from recently annexed territories disliked the embodiment of the Empire Union, though Ivan had made sure, three years ago, that he sent someone decent. This was in spite of Katya's complaints; Savva Yozhin of Olyokin was indeed more lenient than the usual people Katya sent - a great deal more lenient, he actually _smiled_ from time to time - but he was also competent.

Surprising that they should like the military more. Perhaps he would start his work with the Zapreschniy files.

He had drunk an entire pot of coffee and was halfway through the second when he heard rustling sheets and a faint groan of pain from the other room. Well, Ivan thought, that's as good a time as any, as the paperwork was only getting more and more obnoxious. He was up in an instant and at the threshold before he realised perhaps he should not be so hasty. This man, this Eduard - he might remember his face and his first thought may be panic.

But there was very little fear in Eduard's eyes, when he finally opened them. "Are you alright?" Ivan asked him, handing him his glasses from the bedside table. "Can you speak?"

Eduard put them on and cleared his throat. "I believe so," he said, a bit raspy, but that may have been from sleeping so long. "Are _you_ alright?"

"Ah, I'm - I'm fine, don't, don't worry about me," Ivan stammered. "I would ordinarily give you laudanum for the pain, but I'm not so sure about your head. You have a nasty bump on the back of it, and. Well. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?"

"Um. Sure," Eduard said, uncertainly.

Ivan pulled the cover back to expose Eduard's chest. He was still cocooned in the bedsheet Katya had brought, and good idea; Eduard probably didn't want him touching his bare skin ever again. (Not that _Ivan_ would complain because God willing, last night would be enough for him for - for a long time!) "Breathe deeply but very slowly for me," Ivan instructed, his hands on Eduard's chest only lightly pressing. Eduard did as he asked; didn't seem like any pain. Didn't feel like broken ribs. That was outright _miraculous_, truly a holy gift, considering how heavy Ivan was in comparison, and he'd probably just collapsed on the poor man after - after _that whole mess_.

"And -" oh, this would be awkward... "and how is, ah, _there?_ Do you think you can sit up?"

Eduard gave him an arch look. "Well I'm _sore_, yes, but I can manage a little pain -"

"_No_, I didn't - I meant, ugh -" he huffed, face warm, feeling impatient with his own verbal clumsiness. He settled for being blunt, and gritted out through his teeth, "Do you think your pelvis is broken?"

"Oh," Eduard said, moving around a bit, as he struggled to sit up. "I ... don't think so. It feels fine. Well not _fine_ but -"

"That, that's enough," Ivan replied. "How's your head?"

"Bad headache. Nothing more."

"Do you remember why? How much do you remember?"

"A bit," Eduard admitted. "Everything up until - well. How much detail do you want?"

He felt his face inflame again. "As ... as much as you can give me." Unfortunately.

"I remember you tearing the chains from the walls, then you sort of pounced. I remember you on top of me, and after that - nothing, until I woke up maybe a little while later. You were passed out, but I couldn't move - my shoulder, I think - and I was so tired... I woke up a few times, I'm pretty sure, but I just fell back asleep."

"Dislocated," he explained, "the shoulder, I mean. And your wrist is sprained. Are you left-handed?" Eduard shook his head. "Good, because you're not going to be using that entire arm for the next week at least. Let me know if any of this hurts." Ivan prodded him lightly around the skull, and to his credit, Eduard didn't flinch when he drew near. Brave man. Not much swelling, faint warmth. No serious injuries, he prayed, please no serious injuries.

"That hurts a little," Eduard said, at the back of the skull where much of the swelling was.

"Is your neck stiff? Are you numb anywhere? Any drowsiness?"

"I'm still tired," he replied.

Ivan nodded absently, leaning in to check his pupils. Same size; normal reaction. Ah, praise God, praise Him! "I'm very, very sorry," because the closeness seemed to require some sort of apology for all of this. "You don't know how sorry."

"I'm not dead. I'm in one piece. As long as that's not a usual occurrence -"

"Of _course not_," Ivan said, aghast.

"Then I have nothing to worry about."

"I don't know how you can be so calm about all of this," he whispered. "What I did was - was unforgivable."

"It's what I was bought for," Eduard said simply, with a pragmatic, flat tone. That seemed to break the spell - Ivan sat back, instantly uncomfortable. Nothing like a conversation like this to spark a sudden interest in work.

"Rest a bit if you like," he advised, "I'll be checking on you hourly," and Eduard drifted off again, propped up on pillows.

.:.

When he made his rounds the third time, Eduard seemed more alert and upbeat. He looked incredibly bored, but said he didn't feel up to reading, and told Ivan he was getting sick of being in bed all day (it _was_ well past three in the afternoon). Eduard as a person, now that Ivan was actually talking to him, was spirited, wry, polite and very matter-of-fact, in addition to being obviously courageous, if last night was any measure.

He was also terrifyingly intelligent. Ivan had taken a brief look through his papers while he slept, where by brief look, he meant somehow forty-five minutes had magically disappeared. What was this guy doing as a bondsman?

Well. It wasn't for Ivan to judge the reasons his parents had given him up. Or, for that matter, the reasons any parent might give up their child to - to slavery. Sell them off for money. Ivan couldn't understand it.

Couldn't give him his papers; freemen speak freely. Not until well after Ivan's installation as Emperor, and with luck that wouldn't happen for another six years. It was a better life - a life of servitude - than at the hands of a firing squad. Ivan felt if it had been up to Katya there would be no witnesses. She'd done that before.

But Ivan wouldn't sleep with him. Wouldn't - wouldn't _use_ another human being like that. Not in six years, not in a million. Lust was unnatural to begin with, although he felt he might be able to moralise a way around that; he wasn't so diligent about not quenching that thirst. However, it was one thing to abuse himself; sleeping with someone who had been bought and paid for? Absolutely not. Unthinkable. It made his stomach churn unpleasantly.

He hoped Eduard liked politics. Perhaps then there might be a bright side to all of this, he could have someone to discuss elements of state and government, someone who didn't have the Bragin background, because really, their history made them all a little bit cutthroat. Perhaps Ivan might even make a decent friend who was neither related to him nor Brother Toris. He'd suspected, from time to time, that Brother Toris was such a good friend _particularly_ because of the financial help Ivan was so willing to donate - the monk had taken vows, sure, but the Order wasn't rich and Ivan was certain the money did significant good.

(Then again, it wasn't as though money played no role _here_, with Eduard, either.)

Ah yes, he thought in reply, there's that little voice I typically silence with vodka.

But there was none to be found in the house, and until the next shipment arrived, none would magically appear. And so, to the tavern, to meet with Brother Toris. It was getting late in the day anyway. He called Arisha for some soup and tea first, woke Eduard when it arrived, and noted that Eduard re-dressed himself in the clothes Katya had brought up from the dungeon. Perhaps he doesn't have others, Ivan thought, and made a mental note to call upon the tailor (or at the very least, find something he no longer wore that was closer to Eduard's size).

"I would ordinarily give you your papers," Ivan told him, as they ate at twilight. The shocked and almost appalled look on Eduard's face gave him pause, and he doubled back hastily to explain himself (so hastily that he forgot to ask instead why this would be appalling). "I mean of course that I'd free you! You could go anywhere you like and study what you wished. It's just, I can't have this episode get out, for several reasons. It - it makes me upset, I hope you know, it truly does, that you are in such servitude but I assure you, this is not forever. And please, feel free to explore any part of the Duma while you are here - I hear from Katya the library is a popular destination. I can get you any book you could ever want - well, almost any book. Anything you'd like is yours."

Eduard swallowed his mouthful of soup, took a big gulp of tea, and finally said, "I don't think I quite understand."

So Ivan attempted to make himself clearer. "I realise this industry has come about for several reasons. I understand why, I simply do not think it is right. I cannot change that. It would make me exceedingly unpopular to try and change it, and though - though it is true there are no elections here, not really, and people wouldn't have a choice - I think it's best if I allow people to do as they will within the freedoms we give them.

"I don't - well. I have my reasons for not thinking this is right. Some of them are religious, and not everybody subscribes to my personal beliefs, and so I recognise, it is not fair to insist that all the families within the Vitim Court simply stop owning bondspeople. But, I want you to know, I never wanted to own another living soul. Truly, I can think of nothing more wicked. My silly little family tradition is really outdated, and three hundred years of buying one a bondsperson upon their Time is not sufficient reason to change the way I see this system, this trade.

"I've told people this. I've told _many_ people this; they know I'm against it, that I think it's inhumane, that I allow it to happen anyway, and none of this will change when - when I must become Emperor. At the very least it would be hypocritical and scandalous for me now to own and - and _indulge_ in a bondsperson. And at the worst, I might jeopardise the stability of this Empire, which is already still in some danger. No doubt people suspect we own them. We are after all the ruling family; we're rich enough, we're expected to own them. Well, that's fine for Katya. But not me. And the second I can, you're getting your papers."

Eduard was silent a moment, and then asked, "May I ask - what would you have done? If you'd had the ability to decide? How would you have cleared your Time?"

"I was ... _weak_," Ivan said, feeling dirty for the mere thought of how he'd been, shortly before yesterday. "I allowed myself to think dangerous, sinful -" borderline homicidal - "terrifying thoughts, I - my monk friend tells me it was as though I let the devil into my heart in a brief moment of frenzy, and once there, he - oh, he is a cancer, he is a disease. I should not have allowed myself this lapse, I should have been faithful, been strong. Such weakness isn't becoming of someone who is supposed to someday be Emperor!"

"So, you would have done nothing?"

"Not nothing!" Ivan protested. "No, I would have meditated, I would have prayed. The healing power of faith is a marvellous thing. To have relied instead on something so immoral, so ... exploitative as a person in a position that ... humans should not be for sale! It's simply inhumane." He'd never forgive himself. Corrupt creature though he may be at times, there were lines he'd never wanted to cross and that was one of them. Ivan felt disgusting, sick, twisted, depraved.

Eduard was silent again - too silent. Was Eduard judging him too? "Say something," Ivan said softly.

"Do you really believe all of that?" he asked.

Ivan studied him seriously before his quiet reply, directed more to his desk and cold tea than to Eduard, "I suppose, to you - it must not matter to you whether I do or do not, since I own you no matter what."

Eduard was quiet. "I'll leave you to your work," he said finally. "I will be in the library."

"But yes," Ivan murmured, before he could turn away, "I do actually believe that."

Briefly - very briefly - a look of annoyance and irritation crossed Eduard's face. It disappeared as soon as it had come, though, and he said instead, in a measured and calm voice, "I will take my leave."

"Not yet! What was that? Why the look? Don't you, too, feel it's wrong to enslave people for, for these lustful, impure purposes?"

"My entire -" Eduard cut himself off. When he spoke again his tone had once more diminished in heat, in ire, and he was calm. "Permission to speak freely," he said evenly.

Permission to - good God willing! "You shouldn't even have to _ask_ that," Ivan hissed. But Eduard didn't reply until he affirmed, "Yes, absolutely, always. You always have permission to speak freely around me. I - I never want you to do anything but!"

"Then no," Eduard all but snapped, "I _don't_ feel it's wrong. You - what you needed, needed to be done by someone like me. Someone who could take it. So you see, people like me aren't wrong, we're necessary."

"Necessary!" Ivan spluttered. "There is nothing necessary about this! I could have handled it on my own!"

"I really don't think you could have," Eduard replied icily. "You'd managed to drive yourself mad by the time I got to you. So you're being more than a bit ungrateful because now you're in a better state, a better mind - and I sincerely for the sake of this empire hope that you didn't manage to do any permanent damage."

"You expect me to thank you for this." First Katya, now Eduard. What was it with people in this Duma? He could handle problems himself very well, thank you kindly!

"At least thank your sister, I wasn't cheap! Pluswhich, you've gained a status upgrade simply by having me around. So you're welcome."

"What the - what nonsense they've fed you! Owning a human being, a _status upgrade_. I can't believe you're actually saying this to me. The rich, they spout this kind of senseless crap all the time but to hear it from you, this just makes me sad. What, do they pervert your kind into contributing to your own subjection? That's, that's senseless, it's wrong, it's - how can you believe in this?"

"So, so you're saying, you're saying that my entire kind, my whole life until now, has been senseless and wrong?"

"Well - yes! Kind of!" Ivan blurted, and perhaps that was a bad choice of words because Eduard only looked angrier, and it wasn't his intention to have a spitting contest but couldn't the man see reason? Ivan's way was the moral way here! "You talk like you could have won scholarships by now but instead you've wasted valuable brain cells on indoctrination!"

"_Don't talk to me about wasting brain cells!_" Eduard thundered, panting and enraged. He calmed down only a fraction and said, bitingly, "Obviously I'm a painful reminder for you. Perhaps I ought to just leave."

And Ivan retorted, "Yes, that's a brilliant idea, you do that," not caring that the stupid man slammed his door on the way out, rattling its hinges and its five locks.

Honestly! How could someone so brilliant be _so dumb?_ Ivan needed the alcohol sorely after this. He fetched his scarf, told Arisha where he was going and stormed off to meet with Brother Toris.


	17. 17 - America

**a/n**: this one has an extra scene wrt the kink meme copy.

_(america)_

"Now. Are you perfectly sure you've got it, lad? Parrot it back to me."

"Yes I'm - ugh, fine. Rule one, don't speak unless spoken to or asked a question. Eyes on the ground unless they say otherwise. Rule two, be nice."

"_Super_ nice, Al. Not just regular nice. And be pleasant. And _smile!_"

"Yes okay, and _smile_. Got it. Rule three, nudity is allowed, because I'm basically a thing to them, and they're allowed to touch me to move me around and stuff but they won't do any funny business if I stay in line."

"I'll be telling Romae you hardly need any training at all. If my suspicions are correct, he ought to put you in with the more experienced crew."

"Right."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" asked his white-haired cellmate, who, for lack of a better thing to call him, had adopted the name 'Unsinkable' in Alfred's mind.

"I... don't think so?"

"Rule four," Unsinkable prompted, with a knowing grin, "this is temporary. Very, very temporary."

Alfred laughed. "Gotcha."

There were just under three weeks left to the auction. Twenty days. He could make through twenty days eating slop, not talking to anybody, and being treated like an object. And then the Captain would take him home and he'd catch up with Unsinkable and by this time next year he'd be laughing about the whole thing, having completely forgotten the feeling of mortal peril.

Avo Romae had agreed to meet them on Fasciemi Anchorage again - apparently his favourite location. It was no longer safe for the Delivery to be in Hallar airspace anymore, the Captain said there was a prickle in his thighs that usually meant nothing good (for a man who claimed not to believe in God he sure was a holy kinda guy). That, and he said he'd heard things. Rumours. Something about Border Control.

Alfred had never been to an anchorage before. (Hell, Alfred had never been _off-world_ before.) He'd read about all these things and studied them but never, ever did he dream he'd have the chance to go. It's true, the circumstances were less than ideal. But every cloud had a silver lining, right?

Besides, Unsinkable wouldn't let the Captain go back on his word. Alfred could trust him.

And the more the day wore on, the more he needed to rely on that trust, feigned or real, because the worse and worse his feeling about this steadily grew until no amount of excitement about Hallar could abate his dread.

"... but at least y'get decent food here right?" Unsinkable chattered across the bars, over dinner taken in their cells. Alfred didn't reply. "I mean they're gonna feed you so much better at Romae's - can't sell a sack of ribs! That's not the fashion - like, if this were the Flying Star with Cap'n Spriggs, you'd be lucky for a dirty loaf of bread, be honest - Hey, you ain't said nothing for a bit. You okay?"

"I'm fine," Alfred replied, poking at his gruel - the only bit of Kirkland's food that looked in any way edible. Gosh, if Unsinkable thought _this_ was decent... "Just being quiet."

"Oh," said Unsinkable. Then he volunteered brightly, "I can let you be quiet for awhile!" The disbelief must have registered on his face loud and clear because Unsinkable continued, "Really! I can go a long spell without talking."

There was silence for about a minute. Alfred finished as much gruel as he could - limp, oversalted oats, not like Mom made 'em - and set the bowl down with a clink on the flagstone.

And at the end of the minute came, "See? Toldja," from the other side of the bars.

Alfred gave a weak laugh. "Well, thanks. Maybe you're not so good at shutting up, but you're not half bad at cheering up."

"You're nervous," Unsinkable observed.

"Guess'm obvious," he muttered, staring at his feet.

"You shouldn't be." Another clink as Unsinkable put his bowl down and some shifting as he crawled closer to the bars. "I know I make it sound pretty bad but a lot of it is me talking out my ass. That's just how I deal with it, y'know?" He coughed. "It wasn't ... it wasn't all that bad, I guess."

"Then ... those awful things didn't really happen to you? On the Rover with - with that horrible quartermaster, or at that Carson lady's place?"

"We-ell," Unsinkable began, avoiding his eyes. Finally he sighed. "But they won't happen to you!" he said. "I know it sounds hard to believe but the Cap'n can be convincing. That's how he makes his living, after all: sales pitches to guys like Romae for as much money as he can get. So he'll do a good job at selling you as all trained up. No need for lessons."

"Lessons or not, you said they could touch me if they wanted. Doesn't that mean they might ... that they'd ... _you_ know!"

"No, go on, say it," said Unsinkable flatly. "Say the words."

"That they'd ... _fuck_ me," he squeaked.

"See? Not so hard. You can say it. Make it taboo to talk about and you give it all this power. You have to take that power back."

Easier said than done. Alfred wouldn't forget all of New Joplin's customs overnight. How much effort this would be for him! If he were someone like Unsinkable - so used to putting up a front that it was second nature - he'd be a better actor, but what if Romae found out? What if Romae could tell?

"They only do it if they think you need training," Unsinkable continued. "That's why it's so important that you act the part, okay? Perfect bondsman. Act like a robot servant and do everything you're told without a word and you'll be left alone, simple as that."

"They didn't leave you alone," Alfred said.

"I wasn't a perfect bondsman. I wasn't a perfect little robot servant. I misbehaved and - and I got what came to me," Unsinkable said darkly. "They thought they had to train me."

"What if they _do_ touch me," Alfred asked. "And not to move me around. What if they just ... want to do it anyway?" He'd always been told he was good-looking.

"Then... you're gonna hafta let 'em," Unsinkable murmured. "But don't think about that, okay? Don't get all worked up over it, you'll lose your cool and then your cover. Besides, they won't make it so you don't want it."

Alfred snorted. "I'm serious," Unsinkable said, no-nonsense for a change. "They'll - they got tricks. If they wanna touch you, they'll do it - but you'll want 'em to."

"That's a mockery of consent," Alfred hissed.

"Yeah. It is."

"And you expect me to do what, sit there and - and take it?"

"Uh, yeah!" Alfred glared at him through the bars. "What do you expect? You're a _thing!_ You're an object to them! That's exactly what you're gonna do. Don't take charge, don't tell them off, don't fight them off, be passive and wait for it to end."

"This is disgusting," he said bitterly.

"Hey. At least it's not gonna be rough like the pirates would've been with you - you have any idea what Desmond wanted to do with you? Those guys you're gonna be with, they have no reason to rip you apart or hurt you, all they want is to have some fun."

Some fun. Sickening!

"Imagine ... Imagine it's someone else. Someone you like, maybe!"

Alfred shook his head. "No. No, nobody I like would ever do something like that to me!"

"Well you should be so _lucky_ 'cause gee, I guess that's where you an' I are different, ain't we?" Unsinkable snapped.

He shut up, and there was silence again between them.

A sigh, and then, "Look, Alfred," Unsinkable began. "I know it's a lot to take, this is sudden and you've never even imagined something like this. I was there once, too. It won't be long. For you, it won't be long. Twenty days, that's it. Put your acting face on and keep with it and - and keep yourself sane. I know it's dangerous to you but this is the best we can do."

No, the best they could do was have Kirkland bring him home directly. No Romae, no Hallar, no ... no _funny business_with people he hardly knew. This was the best that Kirkland _would_ do, and while he didn't doubt it when Unsinkable told him to be grateful for the scrap of mercy the pirate had given them - because it came at his own expense - it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to a guy like him, to be in the wrong place and wrong time, and to have to pay for the bad hand he'd been dealt with his innocence.

But how could he complain with Unsinkable there? If Alfred considered himself unlucky, that made Unsinkable a walking pile of curses. So he kept his mouth shut and tried not to dwell on it.

Unsinkable murmured the same stuff into his hair the next day, rubbing his back gently like his mom used to do, when he embraced him goodbye. "It'll be okay, kiddo," Unsinkable said, holding him close. "Kirkland won't let me go with you, today, so I'll see you on the other side. Twenty days, just twenty days! Stay out of the way and keep your head down an' they'll ignore you. Trust me."

"I do," Alfred whispered back.

.:.

For a guy who hardly acknowledged Alfred's presence, Avo Romae was pleasant enough. When he wasn't looking, Alfred stole snippets of glimpses out of the corner of his eyes, and he was reminded of his boss back on New Joplin - same big broad chest, same big grin, although the dark swarthy complexion and sparkling happy eyes were unfamiliar.

Romae seemed like the kind of guy who enjoyed what he did and thought it was tops. Alfred wasn't sure what to make of that.

"As you can see," the Captain said, "he's been exceedingly well-behaved for us. I've reason to believe it'll be more of the same for you and any other handler."

"He's really cute," Romae said, lifting Alfred's chin this way and that to inspect his face, "you weren't kidding. Eyes at me," he commanded, and Alfred did so, forcing his stare level and even. Romae came closer then, confusingly, until all Alfred could see was Romae's large face. "Good response. The pupils, I mean. You didn't drug him."

"Of _course_ I didn't," the Captain said, flustered. "Why would I do that?"

"He's got a bit of a glazed look on his face. Dropped on the head as a kid?"

"Perhaps. How should I know? He's pretty and will fetch a goodly penny at auction. If a buyer wants smart, they won't find much at the Bonds Service Decennial. You can expect him under the well-trained price bracket. Start him at three mil, be prepared to get about twelve."

"Well-trained, hm?" murmured Romae. He curled a lock of hair behind Alfred's ears with big, thick, rough fingers - Alfred tried not to shiver - and suddenly snapped his fingers with a loud crack.

The noise so close to his ears took him aback, and he blinked.

Romae let out a low rumble, developed it into a chuckle, and finally a big-bellied laugh. "Oh, Kirkland. You bring me such joy. You know they'll do that at the auction, right?"

"Do... what?"

"If he were _really_ trained," Romae said greasily, "he'd have the biggest hard-on right now. It'll be the first thing the auctioneer'll do when he's presented on stage."

"Ah," said the Captain, "you mean some kind of conditional response?"

"He's so cute, and naive, isn't he?" asked Romae, with a sick grin. "He doesn't know what I'm talking about! Hasn't got the foggiest."

Did... did that mean training? He felt his pulse shoot up and struggled to keep calm. Didn't he do it right?

"I assure you, despite his looks, the boy is remarkably quick-witted -"

"No, I was talking about _you_, Kirkland," Romae said aloud. He leaned down to Alfred's ear where he whispered, "Between you and me, puer, our darling Captain sure makes it obvious he doesn't sell the real deal." He smiled and winked as he leaned back. "Well, let's see what we can do with you, then. Captain, I'll give you four million for him."

"Five," snapped the Captain.

Romae let out a bark of a laugh. "Four and thirty."

"And eighty."

"Four and sixty, that's my final."

"Four and eighty it shall be, and that's _my_ final," the Captain said, standing ground.

Romae pretended to think about it for a minute. "Yes, I suppose that'll do," he said, and heavily clapped an arm around Alfred's shoulders. It was only years and years of football spent with overbearing coaches and super friendly teammates that kept Alfred from trying to deck him. "Go talk to Lovino, he'll set you up with the books. We ought to meet again next week, Kirkland, for the remainder."

"The... remainder?"

Romae turned back with a grin. "Yes, Kirkland. The remainder of the people you collected on New Joplin. Have you so easily forgotten in the wake of this beautiful boy that you picked up the others I wanted?"

The Captain threw Alfred a final look, then returned his gaze to Romae. "I didn't forget," he snapped. "You'll have your others."

"And you'll have your money," Romae finished smoothly, walking away with Alfred.

.:.

Most things about Romae were big, Alfred came to discover. His body was big. His ship was big (it was a good thing Fasciemi was so large itself, Alfred didn't know how he could've docked it otherwise). And his house, when they returned to it, was very big.

Two brown-haired boys had accompanied Romae to the Anchorage, and before they left Romae took each aside individually and spoke in private for a few moments. But the one who led Alfred everywhere was lighter-haired - almost reddish - Avo Romae, of course, did not say a word to Alfred after they left the Anchorage, or even when they landed on Hallar, and 'Lovino', whoever he was, was busy settling accounts with the Captain and would presumably take a shuttle home later.

(And geez, but was it ever difficult to keep his eyes on the ground once they'd landed. Hallar. _Hallar_. He'd only ever heard about the place, never thought he'd ever, ever get to go.

That was probably the only positive thing about the whole situation, he thought, as the brown-haired boy grabbed him by the biceps and frog-marched him into the servants' quarters.)

"There!" the boy said triumphantly, as he closed the door behind him. "Now we can talk, no?"

Um... no?

"It's okay," the boy said, "you can talk. I don't mind! It's only us, here. Oh, I mean, of course, there are _others_, but they - they have their own rooms. This one is for you and me alone. That's nice, right? Isn't that nice? What do you think of it?"

How was he supposed to stay out of the way and ignored if it was just him and this guy? And was he for real? _Rule one,_ said Unsinkable in his head, a voice of blessed reason, _don't speak unless spoken to or asked a question. Rule two, be nice. And smile!_

"It's, um. It _is_ nice," he said. "I like it very much," and the boy's smile was so wide, open and honest it pulled a genuine grin out of Alfred in response.

"Oh, I'm so glad! My name is Feliciano. Let me introduce you around, come here, come here. Ve, Ludwig!" he called, and a tall man entered the room at the back. He was blond, broad and, and _sculpted_ - geez, Alfred thought, his mouth dry, I hope they don't expect me to look like _that_.

Ludwig bowed deeply. "You called, Signore?"

"Oh, don't, don't do that!" Feliciano was waving him off, fluttering his hands almost helplessly. "We're among friends here, yes? Yes! Ludwig, Ludwig - come and meet - what's your name?"

"Alfred," he said, more quickly this time. Feliciano was an easy character to be easy around.

"That's a lovely name, Alfred! Oh, we're going to be very good friends!" And Feliciano threw his arms around Alfred's shoulders and clung, his warmth a pleasant reminder of normalcy. Yes, this was a bit more familiar. No more pirates, no more talk of slaves and - and abuse. Just twenty days of strange friendship, then he could go home. What had he had to worry about again?

Ludwig smiled an enigmatic, tight smile, his eyes careful.


	18. 18 - Lithuania

_(lithuania)_

Toris looked at the clock anxiously. He'd stick around another half hour and then head back downstairs via the backroom, and through the tunnels to home. If Ivan didn't show tonight...

This was not good. This was _very much not good_. Had Bragina gotten to him after all? Gone to Hallar, returned as quickly as possible, that couldn't have meant anything good. If Ivan'd cleared it, that was eight years down the drain, they'd have to move more quickly on schmoozing that rat Spiridon with Bragina in order to cripple at least one of the family.

But it wouldn't do much good! A patriarchal society like Olyokin, the first-born male becomes the emperor... and Toris had been _so close!_ With Ivan unable to rule, his sister would have been appointed Regnant Empress, and then, ultimately controllable through her husband. Hence Spiridon of Kala, who was weak-willed and frankly pathetic, but would appoint advisors sympathetic to the Kilnus cause.

Perhaps he could start talking to Natalya instead...

No, that wouldn't do, Toris actually liked her. He could just start talking with her under the pretense of helping her with her Time - and that was a very, very tempting idea, because by helping, he didn't mean religiously - but then he'd blow his cover.

Perhaps Raivis would be able to talk to the driver again, there was an affair at the Duma tomorrow evening -

"My brother," interrupted a voice to his left, making him jump. "Greetings and grace be with you."

"Ivan!" he said happily. "Grace be with you, brother. You look -"

"Terrible, I know," Ivan said, taking the free chair opposite Toris with a heavy sigh. "It was a rough night." He signalled the bartender for two bottles. Rough night indeed.

"Are you feeling better?" Toris asked, extending both hands to grasp one of Ivan's. He was wearing his gloves, he should be alright.

"A bit," Ivan admitted, as the barkeep brought over two bottles and two short glasses. Ivan handed the man some coins from a small bag with a nod of thanks, and then handed the rest of the bag to Toris. "My apologies for not coming to see you yesterday," Ivan explained, "please accept this as atonement."

"My brother," murmured Toris, "you truly are too kind. God shall reward your generosity tenfold." Hello, new airship sail panels and thermal pump. "Tell me, what happened with the Gospozha yesterday?"

"Well, as I told you, a few days ago," Ivan said heavily, uncapping a bottle and pouring Toris a drink, "it didn't matter what I told her, she went anyway. She went to Hallar, she bought a bondsman. I've spoken to him; he's ..."

"Nice? Attractive?"

"Neither!" Ivan said hastily. "I don't... I couldn't possibly find someone in servitude attractive, that's just -"

"I understand," Toris interrupted. "It's a terrible thing. But look at it this way, this man will never have to give his body up again in his life. Because you will not have him, and you don't share a bondsman with a friend or sibling, after all."

"Th-that's true," Ivan agreed.

"So, in a way, you've saved him," Toris suggested, but that didn't seem to appease Ivan much, and he finished his drink to pour another. "Now another person will abstain from the pleasures of the flesh."

"Right," Ivan murmured quietly. Perhaps a bit too quietly.

"Ivan," Toris asked, "you - you _didn't_, did you?"

"Of course not!" Ivan said, and the aghast, terrified look on his face told Toris all he needed. Plan A, incapacitate Ivan, still in the running. He resisted the urge to fist-pump.

He would tell the team later. With proof that Ivan was still down for the count and, by this state, no doubt becoming worse by the minute, Kilnus Central Intelligence would send out the specialist troops, and they could finally get into the Duma perhaps by the end of the month. Commander Zielska would be happy, as would Toris - it was nice feeling, being able to succeed at something, for once!

He managed to tone his thrilled smile down to something more benevolent, more fraternal. "Ah, Ivan, that's magnificent! I'm so proud of you - well, within spiritual bounds of pride, of course! Was it the meditation that helped? The prayers?"

"Oh, all of it," Ivan replied.

"Rejoice, my brother," he murmured, and Ivan nodded faintly. "You've had to suffer, and you will have to suffer still, but don't grieve. This suffering, it is a test of your faith, and that faith's worth more than any amount of coin. Let your strength develop in the high current of the world."

"If I may ask," Ivan began.

"Anything," Toris replied.

"I know you do not approve of my sister Yekaterina's relationship to her bondsgirl. We've spoken about that before. And the reason you don't agree is because ultimately she, too, was purchased."

"I can't condone the purchase of people, Ivan, you know that," Toris reminded him gently.

"She just," Ivan said, under his breath, so softly that Toris had to lean in and strain to hear him, "she seems so well-adjusted and - and _normal_. It's easy to forget she was once for sale. To me, she's just - _rodnaya moya_, you know?"

Rodnaya. Kinswoman. Well, whatever floats your boat, Toris thought, ambivalent, though _Brother_ Toris wouldn't approve of their curious little family. "Yes, the ones that are trained are often told not to expect anything more in life. There's a significant amount of conditioning that they undergo, when trained."

"What kind of conditioning?"

"I read up about it once. I thought it wise to understand the wicked ways of the devil," Brother Toris said knowingly. "I read about their abuses of tonic to make the body more youthful. I read about how they warp your mind into responding sexually at a particular sound - a snap of the fingers is the most common. Can you imagine, your body's processes taken over completely at someone else's behest?"

"The Time is never one's own behest, either," muttered Ivan.

"That's different, that's biology. God's plan is inscrutable, divine, and doesn't make much sense to our feeble minds. With bondservice training, you have men and women controlling other men and women - psychologically, chemically, emotionally, and physically. That kind of domination on a person, on a trainee, you can't deny it's wrong."

"Then, it's not the trainee's fault," Ivan remarked distantly. "At the end of the day, it's not their fault they think the way they do, they can't help it. No matter how intelligent they might be."

"I'd hope a really intelligent bondsperson could throw off training like a shabby coat. But the devil is truly insidious. He has ensnared the strong and smart with little effort."

Ivan was quiet a minute. Finally he said, "Perhaps I was too harsh with the bondsman."

Toris raised an eyebrow. Ivan explained. "When we spoke, earlier today, we ... it kind of derailed. Into a shouting match. I was not particularly nice. I didn't understand why, why he would ever think that his position was in any way right. That's how he acted, Brother, he acted like it was nothing more than his lot in life! As though some people grew up to be engineers, some grew up to be medics, and still more grew up to _sexually service others!_"

"The conditioning," Toris supplied.

"Exactly," Ivan replied. "I...didn't realise, to what extent..."

"The bondsman may not see himself as a person, but he still is in god's eyes." Ivan nodded and poured them both more vodka. "He always will be. Convince him slowly, of his own personhood, of his existence, his humanity. Show him he's loved, wanted in this world, as more than just a slave. Make him realise there is more to his own life than serving others."

"Should I introduce him to the Order? To God?"

"Not necessarily. I don't think outright proselytising would be helpful." Bondsman might find it distracting to have that kind of hidden agenda. The point would be rather to undo the conditioning to the point that the issue of consent could return - then Ivan wouldn't be able to simply take what he wanted, in case his own momentary lapse of reasons should repeat themselves. Brilliant!

"So... I should apologise," Ivan concluded.

"Yes," Toris agreed, "you should apologise," and he clinked their glasses together. "Besides," he said, pausing to first take a great gulp of vodka, "wrath is as much a sin in the eyes of god as lust. You should not indulge in either with this bondsman."

"I- I would _never_," Ivan assured.

Toris smiled. "I know, my brother."


	19. 19 - Latvia

_(latvia)_

Raivis wasn't expecting to see the Bragins' airship driver at the Duma Gala, but was no less overjoyed when they spoke. The man was a friendly sort, though the two of them must've made a silly pair: Raivis so small, pale and shaky, with his funny curls, in his proper black tailcoat and double-breasted vest, and the driver so tall, big and dark and _solid_, with his strange, ropey hairstyle, in a shirt so loud you'd have to scream to be heard over it.

The driver was also sympathetic to Kilnus, as his country - Artevana - had been annexed swiftly by the Empire Union some twelve years prior, and was now known as the Vityaz state of the same name. No, this man was no friend of Yekaterina Bragina, that was certain.

"Enjoying the party?" Raivis asked.

"At least there's enough to drink," and there certainly was, Raivis had had four vodkas already, enough to get a good buzz going. "Could use a smoke though. Wanna come outside?"

"Ass cold out there, isn't it?"

"It's ass cold everywhere, these days," the man muttered darkly. "C'mon, cariño," and that was his little code name for Raivis. More than just a smoke, then.

"Lead the way, dārgais," Raivis replied in kind.

They stood outside the Duma for a few minutes, sharing one of the driver's fat cigars (well, Raivis tried it, and then needed the rest of his vodka to chase away the burn), until the guards decided they weren't doing anything but smoking or drinking and had walked out of earshot.

"So?" he asked, his voice low.

"So," the driver replied, "you must have gotten the letter I sent you, just after we left."

"Yes. Bragina took them to Hallar. Just her and her bondsgirl, right?"

"That's right. Well, they came back with a third," which Raivis had expected, given Toris' information from talking to a pathetically inebriated Ivan, and Toris' reports from yesterday night.

"_And_ he's here tonight," the driver continued, which Raivis had not expected.

"Can you point him out to me? I think I'd like to talk to him."

"Naturally. Lemme finish this cigar," said the driver, and Raivis put himself to the task of finishing his drink.

As they'd discussed, Feliks - _Agnieszka_ - would be off playing pretty princess all night, and Toris would be busy with Ivan, glued to his side like the fraternal court advisor he was pretending to be. That left Raivis to float. And unless the bondsman was as close to Ivan as Bragina and her little pet for Toris to get close, it'd be up to Raivis to chat up the bondsboy.

He doubted Ivan could latch onto a bondsman after Toris' years of blather about lustful sin and immorality of enslaving the human race in the eyes of God. Especially since Ivan himself had gone on public record expressing his disapproval regarding bondservants, which hadn't endeared him to the high-classies. But the Bragins had money, and power, and a great deal of both. For now.

If he could talk to this boy, try and convince him how dangerous it was to be around Ivan - who, according to Toris, could snap at any moment if not properly soused and _rape the crap out of you_ - he'd be helping Toris' cause. And maybe saving a life.

"That one there," the driver said, when they returned to the pleasant warmth of the main hall, "by the third column, near the painting of General Lyodyrov. Blue waistcoat, grey trousers, blondie with the glasses. Alone."

Raivis spotted him instantly. "Thanks," he said, and before he took his leave, added, "I'll remember to thank you properly later."

The driver chuckled. "See that you do."

Raivis wandered over and gave the bondsboy a quick nod, which he nervously returned. "That's a fantastic vest," Raivis said, by way of introducing himself. "It brings out your eyes really nicely."

"Um. It's not mine," he replied. "It's kind of big on me, I think."

"Well, it suits you. That and the shirt, though I don't know why you've got it tied so tight up around the neck."

"That was the style ten years ago. When it fit the guy I borrowed it from."

Oh come _on_, bondsman, Raivis thought, grumbling, work with me here! "And who's that?"

"The Gospodin," the bondsman said, and Raivis couldn't help a giggle.

"Yeah, Ivan hasn't been your size in a long while." Wait, too far. "Not that he's fat! Just big. Not big like fat! Um. I'm Juris Silins of Olyokin, by the way," and he extended a hand. "I, uh, I study biology at the University."

The bondsboy looked at it, deciding, before he shook it. "Eduard of Hallar. Presently of Olyokin."

Raivis grinned, very widely. "Oh, I _see_," he said, "you're the new one?"

"Ah," Eduard replied, nervously. "I don't, I'm not sure what you -"

"Bondsman, right? Ivan's?" Eduard nodded. "It's okay," Raivis told him, "we're all used to Yekaterina's little one. I'm surprised, though! I thought Ivan was all anti-service."

"He is," Eduard confirmed.

"I'm impressed you were able to get under his skin enough that they bought you! That's talent!" Wait, that was kinda insulting. "Uh, but, of course, I'm sure a bondsman like you is talented enough for anything!" Smooth recovery. Not.

Eduard looked embarrassed. "Thanks," he said, "I think."

"Sorry! I mean, I uh, I don't really talk to, to guys like you too often," Raivis said, feeling his jitters return. He needed more booze. "I mean, I study biology. Major degree. My second, actually, though I know I don't look it! So a student like me doesn't know anybody else with the money to buy - well, besides Ivan, who's loaded. I might come off a little strange, a little bit gabby."

"You definitely do."

"If I say something totally weird, it's just - y'know."

"Right."

"So how do you manage to get Ivan to let loose and indulge a little? He's usually so uptight."

"What are you implying?" asked Eduard.

"Well, _you_ know..." Eduard said nothing. Oh for fuck's sake. Raivis would have to spell it out after all. "Mister 'it's inhumane to assign to certain human beings the label of servitude', now with his own bondsman to enjoy. He didn't seem like the hypocritical sort."

"How do you know I've slept with him?"

"You're his bondsman. That's what you were bought for, wasn't it? Though maybe it's better if you don't. He's kinda big."

Eduard gave him a strange look. Wait, definitely too far - "I mean not that kind of big! I wouldn't know. But he's strong! And kinda scary when he's angry. To tell you the truth I don't envy you at all, with someone like that, getting more and more dangerous by the day."

"Oh?" Eduard said.

Raivis nodded with jerky, nervous motions.

"Do you," Eduard began softly. He seemed to find it difficult to articulate. "Do you think he's a good man?" And there was the million-dollar question.

"He isn't his sister," Raivis said under his breath, leaning in, "but that doesn't mean anything positive. That entire family is messed up, after what happened to their parents, and aunt - when the old Empire crumbled. That was only twenty, thirty years ago. The same people who were with their parents were the ones who raised Yekaterina and her siblings. I really don't think it's a good thing."

"What happened twenty years ago?"

Raivis chuckled darkly, "That's a long story. One I could get into trouble for telling it to you." Which only made Eduard perk up more. "All I'll say here, with eyes and ears, is that it's a good thing you haven't slept with Ivan yet. He can get pretty nasty just on his own, and then you bring in the hormones, and that's a potent concoction right there! You should perhaps stay away. I would worry, if I were you; he might snap you in half since he's so late on his Time."

Eduard gave him another strange, deciding look.

"Well, he hasn't. You know. He hasn't cleared it, yet?" The silence was uncomfortable. Had Toris misread the atmosphere last night at the tavern?

"I'm... not sure I should really discuss this..." Eduard looked at Raivis' glass thoughtfully. "Are there drinks available?" he asked.

"Of course. It's a _Duma party_, it's open bar." On the backs of the peasants, no doubt. "Wanna go get some?"

"Sure," he replied, "after you," and Raivis led him over to the drinks table.

They never made it there. As they were walking along the wall, he felt a sharp tug on his wrist halfway across the room. Very suddenly, the room went much darker, and he found himself in the foot of space between the wall and a tapestry facing off against an expressionless Eduard.

"I will ask you once and only once," Eduard hissed, pointing a finger in Raivis' face, "because I know exactly four people are privy to the information that Ivan Bragin did not clear his Time. And you are none of them. Who are you really?"

Shit. Shit!

But this wasn't the first time this had happened. Raivis had a big mouth and this happened more often than not. So plan B, use the force. (Which was to force yourself to _calm down_, Raivis.)

Raivis gave him a cool, steely, judging look. And then - less quickly than he'd done it before, in front of the mirror - he pulled out the sidearm tucked behind his vest into his pants, secure in the small of his back. Eduard recognised it immediately as a weapon, and put his hands up in defence.

He hadn't kept it armed, but a trained bondservant, one of Francis of Hallar's - sheltered, nice life, naive - wouldn't know that.

"You're smart," Raivis said.

"No, you just talk a lot," Eduard snapped.

"Are you really a bondsman?"

"Are you really a _biology major?_"

"I have associates," Raivis said, quietly, "we're working with Kilnus intelligence. This is strictly a diplomatic mission." And that was the truth. Just a little bit bent. "It's... complicated, the political situation between Kilnus and the Empire Union."

"Tell me about it," Eduard said.

"Glad you agree."

"I meant that literally," he clarified. "I have no clue what's going on besides widespread censorship. And a significant amount of secrecy, from what I've seen working on Ivan's files."

Working - _on Ivan's files?_ Jackpot. Feliks and Toris wouldn't like that he'd given himself away, again, but what an asset this kid would be!

Trained by Francis of Hallar - sheltered and naive - but a taste for knowledge, a natural curiosity... New game plan.

"You asked me if he was a good man," Raivis began. "Why? Do you have a reason to doubt it?"

"No reason either way," Eduard admitted. "He goes back and forth. When I first met him he was - violent. The next time I saw him it was a total reversal and he was this placid, calm, gentle character. Then we got to talking and he's opinionated, and we disagreed, and got angry at each other. He was insulting, a little intimidating. Then he apologised -"

"Ivan Bragin of Olyokin. Apologised." To a _bondsman_.

"...Is that uncommon? Then it only confuses me more, because yes, he apologised. He had me work on some trivial matter for some far-off state in the morning. Then we went for a short walk and discussed a few things, but nothing deep or interesting, no politics - just little things. After that he loaned me some clothes for tonight's affair and that's as far as it's gotten. He goes so far as to claim he'll free me, but then says it won't be anytime soon."

Was Raivis ever glad not to be Vitim. These Time mood swings were ridiculous!

"I don't know what to think about him," Eduard said, almost dejectedly. "Metaphorical, really, because I equally don't know what to think about this entire planet. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and at the same time there's this undertone of something's-not-right. If I weren't what I am, I think I'd probably do some investigating." There was a wistful tone in the bondsman's voice that Raivis suspected shouldn't be there, for someone who was properly trained. Well-crafted property was supposed to not mind being property.

"I can help you with that," Raivis offered, with a friendly smile. "You can find the Empire Union side of the story all too easily. But I bet it won't satisfy you much. I can show you the other side of the story, take you to my superior officers. We'll show you what Kilnus has to say about all of this. Then you get both halves and you can decide for yourself what Olyokin has become."

Eduard took his hands down. "That ... that would be nice," he said, nervously looking at the tapestry, as though people could see them. "I... I won't say anything. About your mission. Um. I would have evenings free, when Ivan goes to the tavern."

"You don't go with him?" Eduard shook his head. "We can do evenings," said Raivis. "In fact, we can do _now_, if you want." He'd been at the party long enough, and he could stand to drag Feliks away. Toris might stay a little longer.

"Now sounds good," Eduard replied, and Raivis ushered him forward, pistol pointed at his sides. "I'll - I'll go quietly, I won't go anywhere," he assured, and so Raivis put the pistol away, hid it behind his tailcoat.

They reappeared at the other end of the tapestry. Nobody seemed to have noticed their disappearances. He spotted Agnieszka Janowska talking to a man he didn't recognise. However, from her body language, it was pretty clear she wanted out. Well, the timing was right. "You stay right here," he told Eduard, leaving him behind a nearby column.

"...Like - okay. Yes, but - oh, hey! Juris, right?" Agnieszka spotted him and beamed her patented million-watt smile. Yes, she definitely wanted out.

"I'm deeply sorry to cut in but there's been a small incident outside, Lady Janowska," he told her. The threatening man with whom she was speaking grumbled low in his throat. Raivis put him on ignore to try and quell his nervous trembling, and tugged a little at her sleeve.

"As if! You'll have to excuse me, Lord Konev," Agnieszka said, "I'm sure it's totally nothing, but I gotta check. If I'm not back in soon, call for me at Lady Rubetska's tomorrow, 'kay?"

Raivis didn't wait for an answer from the brute before pulling her away. Rude, maybe, but he wasn't the one who played the high-society game and Konev would never see his face again.

"Stop dragging me! What the hell is your problem?" Feliks hissed.

"That guy was scary, that's my problem," Raivis said. "And we need to get going." He met up with Eduard and said very quickly, "Eduard of Ha- of Olyokin, Agnieszka Janowska of Olyokin. Now you know each other; let's get out of here," and took off with both in tow for the front room before anybody could notice the celebrated Agnieszka Janowska was making her exit and try to stall her for another dance or a game of bridge or something else that would take hours. (Sometimes Feliks was just a little too good at this game.)

"Whoa, whoa, wait up," Feliks said, and he'd dropped the higher-pitched voice he usually affected as 'Agnieszka'. "Can we be, like, totally clear on this, Juris? By 'out of here', you mean -"

"_Yes_, I mean _that kind_ of _out of here_. It's okay, he's with us," Raivis said, referring to Eduard. "Toris'll be home later."

Feliks looked from Raivis to Eduard and back again uncertainly. "Okay," he agreed, "just lemme get my coat from the front room." He returned a moment later swathed in furs and a lace scarf and said, "Now we can go."

They weren't going far, but it was already ten below and Eduard didn't have a coat of any sort. He brightened when they finally appeared at the back door of the Kapriz. Feliks went first to escape any casual observers - high-class ladies in a tavern like this? Maybe if you were Yekaterina Bragina and could get away with it - followed by Eduard and then Raivis. The back door led to the kitchens, and there everybody was Kilnus-friendly, so nobody looked at the 'Vitim' Agnieszka Janowska or her two friends as they ducked in behind the iceboxes and scrambled down the staircase hidden by the empty foodcrate marked 'very fragile, this side up'.

"Dammit," Feliks whispered, "someone took my torch again." He took Toris' instead, flicked it on, and they were off.

The walk was a short and quiet one - they were passing by the basements of more than one Vitim household - and not fifteen minutes later they arrived back at camp.

"Welcome to chez Kala," Raivis announced proudly, when they could talk again.

"_And_ Sprus," Feliks snapped, putting the furs away.

"And Sprus," Raivis admitted. "Well? What do you think of it?"

He watched as Eduard walked slowly around the large underground high-bay they'd taken over as their airship hangar and workspace. He first looked at everything on the walls - lots of pinned papers and files, a few silly things here and there like Toris' rock posters - then on the desks. There were many desks, and not one of them had an inch of clear space: some had more papers and files, and ink (some of it spilled), plus the odd empty vodka bottle. The one against the wall next to the fumehood showed a chemistry setup where it looked like Toris was trying to distill something - maybe more vodka, but that didn't explain the orange colour. The one in the corner had half of Feliks' Agnieszka wardrobe in an unstable pile (not folded, of course, because why would we fold our clothing, Raivis thought acidly, that would make sense and we can't have that). It went on and on, and as Eduard kept looking around Raivis felt more and more self-conscious about what a mess this place was.

Finally, Eduard craned his neck upwards, but not at the hanging lamps overhead - at the airship, where Feliks had been doing repairs. There was still oil everywhere, and empty fuel vials, along with tools scattered about the floor by the lower engine panel, which was propped open with some of Raivis' books (thankfully, not his favourites).

"Feliks, you really gotta clean up your station," Raivis admonished.

"Okay, in my defence, I totally didn't know we'd be having guests!" Feliks said. "Now help me with this frickin' corset."

While unlacing enough of the corset for Feliks to slip out of it, he heard a soft hush from Eduard, "This place _is amazing_."

"It's really messy," Raivis said, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Eduard replied in awe, reaching out to touch the airship and peer into the lower engine. He moved slowly, in a dream-like trance.

Feliks shimmied out of the corset entirely, standing only in the crinoline cage and bustle. "God, that feels way better. Like I can breathe again."

"Oh," Eduard said, with a flat, almost unsurprised tone, "you're not a woman."

"Hey, I'll have you know I totally make a better woman than most women," Feliks retorted.

"I didn't mean to be insulting," Eduard replied quickly. "I guess it makes sense if you're all going undercover."

"...What makes you think we're going undercover?"

Eduard laughed derisively. "Oh, I don't know, the back door entrance to the tunnels to this magic underground workshop? The quick and secret getaway? The sidearm your friend pulled on me?"

"You're quick," Feliks said suspiciously.

"High scores," Eduard murmured, still distracted by the airship.

There was a tense moment as Feliks studied Eduard very carefully. Raivis gulped nervously - Feliks'd surely chew him out for this later, he hated being chewed out...

But then Feliks stalked over to his workbench and grabbed something. He grinned and called out, "Hey, heads up!" and tossed the bondsman the broken Eavesdropper he'd been wrestling with recently. "You like gadgets? See if you can fix that little guy. Use any tools you need, they're on that bench over there."

Which was an opportune moment for Feliks to take Raivis aside. "So like what's this guy's deal, anyway?" he hissed.

"Works close with Ivan - _really_ close - isn't sure whether to trust him or not, doesn't know if he buys all the propaganda the Empire Union craps out. He pretty much came here of his own volition, and look how happy he is to just sit and tinker with gadgets. Says he won't say a thing about us being at the Duma if he can get information the Empire censors. Which isn't hard for us to provide," Raivis said, looking pointedly at the books propping up the engine panel. "He'd be an amazing asset."

"Raivis, that's - that's _perfect_," Feliks said.

"I know, it's almost like I'm smart or something," he replied.

Eduard, seated over at the table, busy at work, paid them both no attention. They watched him work for about fifteen minutes until he said, "Have you got some sort of feed I can test it on?"

"As if he's already got it working. Wait 'til Toris gets a load of this one," Feliks murmured. Raivis grinned.


	20. 20 - Iceland

_(iceland)_

Norge returned the next day around one. "Letter for you," he said, "and a job."

The job wound up being a fairly straightforward request from Norge's 'information associate' to provide full documents for 'Anistas Kudrins of Olyokin', soon to be a handservant with references. (Wow, dream big, Anistas, he thought dully, but then admitted a handservant would be easier to impersonate.) Norge gave him a description to fill in but no picture; he said instead the picture would be the last thing to go into the file before filing with Olyokin legislature.

That sounded pretty fishy, but fishy was Ísland's business. And honest, he wouldn't do this for just anybody, but Norge wasn't just anybody.

The letter on the other hand was much less welcome. When the first words he saw were "DON'T RIP THIS UP, PLEASE" it had two effects upon Ísland:

-It made him really want to rip it up  
-It made him immediately look at the signature to see who the sender was

When he found out who the sender was, he really, _really_ wanted to rip it up. But for some reason - morbid curiosity? slow day? felt like needing a reason to drink and or whack his head on the desk? - he kept reading.

_I understand we are not friends, and are indeed on opposite sides of ideologies. I doubt you can say you respect my work and equally, I cannot say I respect yours. But I admit you are, hands down, the best at what you do within this entire system. Just this once I require your assistance in helping to return someone home, a freeman who's in danger of being bought at the Decennial. So it appears that for once we're on the same side._

_I sincerely hope I've at least piqued your interest. Please send your reply with a meeting place to Postal Box 592, Fasciemi Anchorage. I'd like us to meet and discuss this in person; I think it's fair to say both of us feel poorly towards paper trails. (Please feel free to burn the letter after reading.)_

Arthur Kirkland, Captain of the Great Delivery of Banningham

Ísland ripped it up anyway. "Asshole," he said, "thinks I'm at his beck and call." Maybe he _wouldn't_ burn it, just to be a jerk.

Norge padded back over from the stove. "What was it?" he asked, picking up the two pieces of ripped parchment.

"'Captain Kirkland, requesting my assistance'," Ísland said, in a mocking Queen of Banningham accent. "He can go fuck himself, the dingy pirate."

"Don't be vulgar," said Norge. "You should go."

"What? Are you joking?"

"Great Delivery did the Dordlands job three years ago with our friend Tim. This would be convenient." Ísland's face remained firmly fixed in perplexion. "I'm serious," Norge insisted. "Look, if you don't wanna go, I'll go with you. But he wants something from you, so we've got a bargaining chip to force information about Dordlands out of him. You said it yourself yesterday morning, we have no clue where Tim's sister is. This'll give us a head start. And if he doesn't have what we want, then he doesn't get what _he_ wants. Simple as that."

Which, as much as it pained Ísland to think about, was actually a great idea.

"Fine," he said, grumbling, finding some parchment and ink, "but you're coming with me. And Sverige."

"Oh hell, let's all go," Norge said. "Make us a trip out of it."

.:.

Ísland sent back the following message:

_Much as it pains me to do anything remotely associated to you - besides undoing your miserable work, that is - I'm feeling generous. You will meet me two days from now at Brattefjell Anchorage in the Cloud at 6 PM System Standardised Time sharp__. I know the Great Delivery has speed when she wants so don't even think about being late. I will be in the Lower Service Meeting room. When you knock, give the password: 'Kirkland is a filthy pirate who steals people for money'. Nice and loud._

He didn't bother signing it.

Six people in a tiny stealthship were not a great idea, but it would have to be the stealthship. Brattefjell Anchorage was ancient and nobody took care of it anymore. Its weight limits for docking ships were two centuries out of date, and Ísland didn't feel lucky testing the strength of the dilapidated beams on their airship, which was overweight and bulky anyway. (Danmark had been saying for three years now that he'd apply for a minor degree in engineering at Langholt University, but nobody believed him anymore; Danmark's only consistency was being _all talk_.)

On the upside, Brattefjell was deserted. And Norge reported having spotted a tracker on the airship when he left Olyokin. That meant they'd need to overhaul the facade again, and they would require a good three, four days for that.

(It would have been a mere two days if they had an engineer on the team. Ísland was just saying.)

.:.

They arrived in the stealthship at 5 PM to get ready. The anchorage wasn't too large and didn't have much in the way of defence. They'd been there nearly an hour when they finally heard voices. "Wow," said one - not Kirkland - "you sure pick the best place for your dates. A creaky old shack. This is awesome. Not."

"I swear to the god I don't believe in," and that was Kirkland, "you get more insufferable with every day."

"The sooner you admit to yourself you secretly love my awesome company, the happier we'll all be, Captain," the other voice said cheerily.

"Do you think you could kindly shut your mouth and perhaps keep it closed for the duration of the meeting?" Kirkland asked sweetly. "I only ask because _this is a little bit important_."

"Scheisse," the other hissed, "I know it's important, you don't have to remind me. I'll be good, okay? I'll be helpful and useful. I wouldn't do anything to risk Al."

There was a knock at the door. "Password?" Ísland called mockingly.

"Oh, for chrissake -"

"You don't get in without the password!" Ísland sing-songed.

Some grumbling, and then, "Kirkland is a dirty pirate who sells people for money. There. Now let me in." Amidst his snickering, Ísland gave the go-ahead to Sverige, standing behind the door to throw open the deadbolt and swing the door open.

"It was actually _filthy_ pirate, who _steals_ people for money, but I'll let that slide," said Ísland, slouching against a gunpowder crate and propping his feet up on another one.

Kirkland looked more ruffled than the fraying cuffs of his shabby frock coat. His companion, Ísland had never met before. He was a white-haired red-eyed pale man, wearing an over-sized shirt (which might have been white once, long ago) that he had tied with a faded cloth belt and left to hang over loose pants. The only reason he didn't manage to trip all over his pant legs was the criss-crossing twine that held the material tied tightly to his calves.

Ísland thought he should've done the same with his shirt; his rolled-up cuffs kept sliding down past his skinny wrists. It'd be almost charming if he weren't a _pirate_.

"Look," Kirkland said. "I'm not happy about this either. Let me explain and perhaps things'll become a lot clearer. Then we'll both be on our ways, nice-like, and we never have to see each other's faces again, aye?"

"The sooner that happens," Ísland hissed, "the better."

"Alright. Here's the matter. We need your services doing two things. Part one, we need you to make four million look like forty million."

This was actually a fairly simple job with check forging. But Ísland wasn't willing to do anything for them just yet. "And why's that? Cap'n wants a new set of knives?"

"'S got nothing to do with me. I need the money to purchase back a slave at the Decennial coming up. If it weren't for one of my stupid ex-crewmates, I wouldn't have to be anywhere near Hallar the day of the auction, but he went and picked up a boy from New Joplin that he shouldn't've. That's the boy I want to free. So far I've managed to sell him to someone who will put him up at auction - that makes it easier for a guy like me to buy him."

"But you can't get anywhere near Hallar these days." Ísland had read the news that morning; Kirkland and friends were officially persona non grata at Hallar airspace (and a few others).

"Precisely twice my problem. They're going to be watching the hell out of every planet involved in the service trade to detain and question a mercenary frigate like mine. And it's the one time I need to get to Caput Halleri surface and back without getting shot at. How I will manage to buy back the boy from the auction is my next problem to tackle, but the first is to ensure I've got the funds. I sold him for four million. If you can inflate that an order of magnitude - enough to buy him and travel back to New Joplin - I'm going to take him home.

"Part two, we need you to forge documentation and file it for us for this one here," he said, pointing to his white-haired associate.

Huh. So, not a pirate then. "Explain," Ísland said.

"I want to free him, too," Kirkland said. "He's been going from place to place since he's not sellable - none of the other traders've had much luck - so it's the end of the line. As it turns out, I need a boatswain, so he's even got a job, just needs the documentation."

"A job!" Ísland laughed. "'He's even got a job', he says! You want me to help you hire another dirty bugger to help you do your shit work so you can continue stealing freefolk and making your money off their broken backs? You disgust me. No deal."

"Hey, hey hey!" said the white-haired one, "let's not get so hasty, huh? Captain's doing a bad job of explaining the real situation here. Lemme break it down for you instead." Kirkland was flushed and gaping, but the white-haired man just patted him on his hand, stage-whispering, "It's okay, I got this," which only made Kirkland more apoplectic.

Ísland liked him immediately, for a prospective pirate. "I'm listening."

"You must not know who I am, so here's the story since you've been under a rock. I'm the guy that goes from trader to trader to trader because none of them can figure out a way to tame the awesome me into being sold. In fact most of them have just decided to stop trying. Case in point, Romae. You know Avo Romae?"

Oh yes, Ísland knew Avo Romae. "Where is this going?"

"The traders, they figure, if they can't sell me to someone who wants my living body, they'll sell me to someone who wants my dead body. There are some real sickos out there, man," the white-haired man said, "real fuckin' sick. Do you know how much a sicko would pay for that kind of perversion?"

Ísland shrugged. "Maybe a million?" Kinky shit - more expensive - but an untrained slave, after all. They generally never asked more than a few hundred thousand for those.

"Try ten." _Ten?!_ For an untrained slave? "Ten million offered to Kirkland for him to sell me to Avo Romae, so Romae could sell me to a pervert who wanted to hunt and kill me. Captain's never even seen that much money. And do you know what he said?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me," Ísland replied, trying to keep his face perfectly expressionless.

"He said no deal. For me. So you see what this is? And there's - there's no love here. In fact Kirkland doesn't even like me that much. In fact, he probably hates my guts with how much I annoy him."

"That's not untrue," Kirkland piped up.

"And despite being offered ten million to get rid of me permanently, he wouldn't do it. I mean, Kirkland's not a good man -"

"I'm really not," Kirkland agreed.

"- but if he can manage this, for me, someone he doesn't like, imagine what he can do for someone he does like."

"I told you, I _don't_ like him!" Kirkland said, flustered.

"Oh, you do too," white-haired guy said softly, "you must, I've never seen you bend over backwards like this for anybody." Not for me, Ísland heard, unspoken.

"Well this little love-in is simply adorable," Ísland snapped, "really, it is. But you're wasting my time so we'll cut to the chase. I've got a question, why would your little pirate-to-be here need proper documentation? Most pirates, when asked to present their documents, pull out a sword and say 'I got your documents right here'."

The white-haired guy cackled. "Oh man, I am so ready to do that it's not even funny."

"If I don't get him papers," Kirkland said, struggling to speak over his louder companion, "then he's still essentially a slave. He still can't go anywhere on his own. He still could be spotted, captured, and sold off to that same bidder who wants his head. And - well look at him, will you? You'll never forget that face. White hair and red eyes. Everyone knows who he is from the look of him, and ... and if anybody should ever get the word out that he's free for the taking, or if Romae should put a wanted sign out for his capture, he'd be gone in a flash."

"You can't protect him if they kidnap him in the dead of night and strip him of clothes _and_ documents. Like a certain pirate I know does," Ísland sneered.

"No," Kirkland admitted, not rising to the bait, "but I'd do my best to get him back."

"Aw, _captain_," the white-haired prospective pirate said warmly, clasping his hands to his chest like an absurd swooning lover, "I'm touched!"

"You be quiet. Anyway. Will you do it?"

"Let me see if I've got this straight," Ísland said. "You're going to give me money - just pile it in my arms - and trust that I will inflate it for you, as a personal favour, because I'm that nice and the history beween us is that important to me, instead of taking it and running, like you'd deserve?"

"We're, ah, not exactly spending it on a new ship," Kirkland said weakly, "it's for a good cause."

"And you'd like me to - while I'm at it, being so nice - forge some papers _and_ file them for you so that this guy can join your little piracy team."

"Yes, please!" said the white-haired one enthusiastically.

"And I guess I'm just to assume you will do exactly as you've said, instead of, oh, take the money and run, and leave the boy at auction. That'd be the most profitable route."

"I'd never," Kirkland swore.

Oh, _really?_ Ísland thought drily.

"Then -" he made a show of clearing his throat - "what are you willing to give up?" Ísland said. "How do you want to pay for all this?"

And that was the cue for all the others to pop out of their hiding places - behind crates, behind the door, behind the desk - with pistols drawn and cocked. Kirkland's hand instantly leapt to the holster at his waist, but all too quickly, he was surrounded, and the horrified look on his face when he realised it was picture-perfect.

Ísland let his grin slowly shift from pleased to shit-eating. Some parts of his job were simply delectable and merited _savouring_.

"Toldja you should've given me a gun," the white-haired one hissed.

"You don't know how to fire a pistol!"

"I coulda _learned!_"

"Fat lot of good it'd've done anyway, we're still outnumbered," Kirkland muttered. He said aloud, "Ah, we can offer money -"

"What I don't have, I can create the illusion of having," Ísland said smugly. "I don't need your ill-gotten gains."

"Then, erm..." Kirkland seemed lost for words. It was a nice change of pace.

"We'll stop slaving," the white-haired one stated. "How about that? That helps your agenda."

"What?" Kirkland erupted. "That is - completely - absolutely not! Don't listen to him, he's mad -"

"I think I like that idea," and this time, it wasn't Ísland talking, it was Tim from the corner, approaching Kirkland and his associate slowly, Danmark not far behind him. "In fact I think I like that idea a lot." He came about a metre away from Kirkland and stopped. Then he raised his pistol to Kirkland's face and pressed the barrel into Kirkland's forehead. The white-haired guy looked set to lunge, prepared to knock Kirkland out of the way, but Danmark stopped any more such motions with a gun pointed at _his_ face.

"Do you remember me, Captain?" Tim asked softly, dangerously.

Kirkland swallowed, looking intimidated. "I'm - I'm afraid I don't," he admitted.

"I guess too many slip through your greasy hands for you to recall any _fine details_," Tim spat. "Allow me to jog your memory. Do you remember the Dordlands run?"

"Yes," Kirkland replied quietly, "yes, I do."

"Three years ago you took a pair of siblings. That was kinda weird, wasn't it? You'd never done that before. Remember it? One of them had come to give you money to let the other one go, which you'd said you'd do, because you were just so nice. Do you remember what you did after?"

Kirkland nodded.

"Maybe now you recognise one of them, huh? Maybe it was hard to tell who I was because I didn't have that terrified, betrayed look on my face, you know, the one that's now on your ugly mug? I'd give you a mirror for you to check it out and compare, but I don't know if you could stand to look yourself in the face after _what you did_ - you took the money my sister brought, you took it all for Cap'n Kirkland, and then you took your pretty pair of slaves and sold us both to Romae. You remember now?" And Tim's voice cracked and wavered in his anger. "You remember how much money we made you, you _filthy pig?_"

"_Wow_, Captain," his associate said.

"I am not a good man," Kirkland murmured.

"No. You're _not_," the white-haired guy replied flatly.

"Yes, I remember you," Kirkland said, to Tim. "But I don't remember where you went afterwards. I only brought you to Romae. That's all I know."

Tim glared. "Well, guess we can't do anything for you, then."

"I remember Margot," the white-haired guy piped up, and Tim went rigid. "That's who you're asking for, isn't it? Your sister."

Tim nodded tightly, his eyes hard.

"Yeah, I remember Margot very well," he said. "Desmond threw her in the brig when she didn't behave too nicely for him and she stayed there until we got to Hallar. She was neat."

"He tried to _violate_ her," Tim growled.

"Keyword, tried. Didn't succeed. Also he's dead now. But yeah, Margot was _awesome_," the white-haired guy noted, with some pride. "The Delivery took her a few times around actually. Like they did with me, here and there."

"You think you can find her?" Ísland asked the white-haired guy. He nodded. "If you can get whoever's got her now to put her up at the Decennial, or to sell her to someone who will put her up at the Decennial, we'll buy."

"Heyy, uh, there was a reason Margot went around with us for a bit," he replied. "She's a real riot. About as sellable as I am."

"You will tell them there _will_ be a buyer, and it's not someone who wants to kill her," Ísland clarified, his voice thin. "You do this for us, and help us buy our 'slave'; we'll forge you your papers and help you buy yours."

"Have I got your word on that?" Kirkland asked.

"You have. I'd ask for yours, but my friend here -" Ísland pointed to Tim - "can vouch for precisely how much _that's_ worth." He stuck his hand out and let Kirkland defile it with a firm shake. Well, he didn't like these gloves anyway. "I'll simply trust you want to free this boy of yours badly enough that you don't screw this up. Once you've got what we want, you'll send me another note - since I know you know where to send it - and we'll meet again."

Kirkland said nothing. Good. There was nothing the foul pig _could_ say.


	21. 21 - Turkey

_(turkey)_

The signal came in their hotel room on Olyokin. "Hey, we're hot," Agent Adnan said, shaking his partner awake. "Didja hear me? I said we're hot! Let's get moving, dumbass!"

"Whah," mumbled Karpusi. "God, it's what, four AM?"

"One in the _afternoon_, Rip Van fucking Winkle. I am so amazed you can sleep through that," Adnan spat, referring to the Eavesdropper practically pissing itself with excited chirps. "Now get a move on. They're taking to the skies, we gotta follow her."

"Little Wing or Big Bird?"

"Dunno if they've made any changes to Big Bird," Adnan said, and it took awhile for proper airship changes but Alpha through Epsilon were insanely efficient so he just never knew with them.

But it was the stealthship - Little Wing - the Eavesdropper had picked up on, from the vid feed placed at Nunat airspace outskirts. And that was dangerous, because Little Wing was _fast_, about as fast as the agency viper, and if they didn't move now, they'd lose her before they'd begun.

And Karpusi was still half-fucking-asleep. Goddammit. "We can grab a coffee on the way back at an anchorage but for now we really gotta go," Adnan reminded.

"Fine," Karpusi said, climbing into the cockpit of the viper and belting himself in. "You're driving."

"Yeah no shit I'm driving. There's no way I'm letting you do it," Adnan replied. "Fuckin' narcoleptic," he said, as Karpusi leaned against the side window and dozed off again.

Although he remembered clearly - and fondly - being a young boy who was fascinated by the white smoke trails in the sky from Halleri sea-level, the feeling of piercing the clouds and atmosphere was, by now, completely lost on Agent Adnan. All in a day's work, so he thought nothing of ripping the throttle back, nosing the viper up, keeping her steady so that her fragile wings didn't get clipped by the speedy currents of Olyokin's atmosphere. There was not much joy in it anymore, for him, and neither was there much joy as the blue slowly gave way to indigo, navy, and finally black, dotted with far-off points of light.

He flipped the switch for the anti-glare. One would think the view would be amazing, from space, but truth was, they were still so close to the Sun - and an ice ball like Olyokin gave off one hell of a nasty reflection - that even with the anti-glare, all he could really see were a few particularly bright stars and the tiny specks of the other planets in the system.

And, of course, off in the distance, a tiny, twinkling, fading light, which he couldn't see (but his controls could) which was their target - the group of five's stealthship, rapidly escaping.

He gave some thanks to the god of celestial mechanics that Olyokin was so close to Nunat these days. If Olyokin had been on the other side of the sun - or slightly more than an eighth of an orbit away - there would have been nothing he could've done. They were outer planets, Olyokin and Nunat, so their orbits were big enough that an eighth of an orbit was an incredible distance to cover. Something the group of five's stealthship could outrun easily.

He kept a careful distance behind, with the lights off. Karpusi would probably be happy with that; no nightlights to keep him awake (not like that ever stopped the guy from napping anywhere, anywhen). They travelled about four hours - still only a fraction of Nunat's orbit, to say nothing for Olyokin's - radially outward from the sun, into the Cloud, until their ship showed a sharp speed decrease on the controls.

Shit, he thought, they've spotted us! But then he remembered. There was an old anchorage that hardly anybody used anymore. Glorified space junk with the bare necessities in the way of biosystems; pressure monitor and oxygen feed and a little bit of warmth, and that was about it. The _pirates_ weren't dumb enough to go near it, it was a damn death trap waiting to happen.

So of course, that's where the stealthship headed. He pulled up in plain view and watched as they docked, clicking all engine systems off, retracting the shiny reflective panels and floating dead in the water. As good as cloaked as you could get.

Karpusi chose that time to wake up. "Mmh, we there yet?"

"Yeah, we're here," Adnan replied. "Ever been here before?"

Karpusi looked around. "What the hell is _that?_"

"That's an anchorage, believe it or not. At least two centuries old, maybe older."

"The hell are our boys doing wandering around these parts?"

"That is a very good question," Adnan mused. They watched in silence for about thirty minutes until - "hey, check _that_ out. Over there."

To their right, by Karpusi's side, there was a much larger ship approaching - so large and near that they could just make out its overall shape visually. Karpusi took out his telescopic spyglass from his inner coat pocket and expanded it. "That's a frigate," he said. "Mercenary, judging from the flag and figurehead."

"Do you recognise her?"

"Not quite..." he expanded the spyglass more and fiddled with the focus a bit. "Yes, that's the Great Delivery. The shape looks familiar. And the pattern of lights on the side; Kirkland has a thing for chevrons," he decided. Karpusi collapsed the glass confidently and put it back in his pocket, removing something else - yesterday's newspaper. "I knew the shape looked familiar. That's her there, too," he said, pointing to the inset pictures in the article. Adnan took the paper to read it more closely.

_**INFORMATION REQUEST IN NOVA RAIDS**_

_Constables and federal agents from the New Joplin Security Control, as well as the Bonds Service Protection Agency, are looking for any information in regards to identification of the above pirate vessel which appears to be a frigate. The pictures are being released with extended thanks to the Nova sector Border Control, whose video feeds captured the images below from the recent raids on the Nova dwarves. If any individual should have information, please contact Major Constable Hassan of the New Joplin 118th Police Squadron._

_Until further notice, all mercenary vessels class schooner and above are not permitted in any of the following airspaces: Hallar, New Joplin, New Sainte-Dolitte, Tenickson, Marigon and Bast. No comment yet from sources on Veshna, Schlessen, Nunat or Olyokin. Any vessels with these qualities found in these spaces will be detained for questioning._

"Oh for fuck's sake," he said. "So our little group is in talks with Kirkland and his crew."

"I don't know _what_ they're doing together," Karpusi said. "I'm willing to bet quality naptime it's not legal, though."

"Betting quality naptime!" Adnan snarked. "Watch out, we got a bad ass over here."

"Oh what, you want money on this? I can do money," Karpusi retorted, "since I'm the one Foster gave the promotion to."

"I'll get mine in three months, then we'll see who's laughing. In fact, I bet you the Qualla case Kirkland's helping our group of five."

"They'd never do it. I bet you the group of five is actually part of Kirkland's crew."

"You bet me what, your quality fuckin' beauty sleep?"

"No, ass-breath! The fucking Qualla case." The Qualla case, which had been promised to one of them, and only one of them, if they didn't manage to get any headway on the Nunat money launderers in the next month. The other would have to complete the damn Nunat money laundering case with Agent Metzger (who was a prick, which Karpusi and Adnan actually agreed about).

Adnan glared. "You're on," and they shook on it.

They watched on the controls as the Delivery's light spawned a second - probably a shuttle - which attached itself onto the ancient anchorage, and sat in stony silence for about fifteen minutes thereafter. "Are there any auds or vids on that thing?" asked Karpusi.

"Are you kidding me? That thing predates aud technology." A shame, though.

A short time thereafter both ships left. "Okay, they're definitely in cahoots," Karpusi said.

"We should split up," Adnan decided. "You go back and track the group, see what's up with the Janowska girl, I'll take the pirates."

"Hold on, we only have one viper! What if I have to trail the group back to Nunat from Olyokin?"

"You can get one with your clearance from the Vehicle Service DC in downtown Skuratchky."

"I - what? Really? Since when?"

"Uh, since always?"

"You mean to tell me I've been able to get my own ship for over two years now and instead I've been trekking around with you?"

"Hey, I'm not the one who slept through the debrief."

"I can't believe - ugh. You do realise with two vipers we might've stood a chance at, oh say, maybe surrounding our friends here?"

Oh, shit. That was true. "Frankly I think you'd be better off with something a little tougher to crash, Sandman, like an armoured heavy raider or something," Adnan bit back.

"Tease the guy with the sleeping disorder, sure. That's imaginative as fuck as usual, asshole. Lemme know when you think up something legitimately decent, if that's even possible."

And their bickering continued along that manner for the majority of the ride back to Olyokin. By the time they'd gotten back to their motel and cold cups of tea, Adnan was fully convinced it was better they spend some time away from each other, so that they didn't wind up with a double homicide on top of money laundering.

There was just something about Karpusi's face that made him want to punch it really hard. They'd have to keep in contact obviously, but they could do that through mail. The mailers took stealthships these days, and made the trek much faster - Hallar to Olyokin in about a day, compared to a new airship (a day and a half to two days) or an old airship (four days best case scenario). It'd cost them a pretty penny in stamps but the Agency'd reimburse them, and he suspected they'd both work a lot better with more space.

Well, there was nothing like a solar system full of planets to get some space.


End file.
